The Song of the Lark

by Willa Sibert Cather

  Uncle Billy Beemer’s grove,—twelve town lots set out in fine,

  well-grown cottonwood trees, delightful to look upon, or to listen to,

  as they swayed and rippled in the wind. Uncle Billy had been one of the

  most worthless old drunkards who ever sat on a store box and told filthy

  stories. One night he played hide-and-seek with a switch engine and got

  his sodden brains knocked out. But his grove, the one creditable thing

  he had ever done in his life, rustled on. Beyond this grove the houses

  of the depot settlement began, and the naked board walk, that had run in

  out of the sunflowers, again became a link between human dwellings.

  One afternoon, late in the summer, Dr. Howard Archie was fighting his

  way back to town along this walk through a blinding sandstorm, a silk

  handkerchief tied over his mouth. He had been to see a sick woman down

  in the depot settlement, and he was walking because his ponies had been

  out for a hard drive that morning.

  As he passed the Catholic Church he came upon Thea and Thor. Thea was

  sitting in a child’s express wagon, her feet out behind, kicking the

  wagon along and steering by the tongue. Thor was on her lap and she held

  him with one arm. He had grown to be a big cub of a baby, with a

  constitutional grievance, and he had to be continually amused. Thea took

  him philosophically, and tugged and pulled him about, getting as much

  fun as she could under her encumbrance. Her hair was blowing about her

  face, and her eyes were squinting so intently at the uneven board

  sidewalk in front of her that she did not see the doctor until he spoke

  to her.

  “Look out, Thea. You’ll steer that youngster into the ditch.”

  The wagon stopped. Thea released the tongue, wiped her hot, sandy face,

  and pushed back her hair. “Oh, no, I won’t! I never ran off but once,

  and then he didn’t get anything but a bump. He likes this better than a

  baby buggy, and so do I.”

  “Are you going to kick that cart all the way home?”

  “Of course. We take long trips; wherever there is a sidewalk. It’s no

  good on the road.”

  “Looks to me like working pretty hard for your fun. Are you going to be

  busy to-night? Want to make a call with me? Spanish Johnny’s come home

  again, all used up. His wife sent me word this morning, and I said I’d

  go over to see him to-night. He’s an old chum of yours, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, I’m glad. She’s been crying her eyes out. When did he come?”

  “Last night, on Number Six. Paid his fare, they tell me. Too sick to

  beat it. There’ll come a time when that boy won’t get back, I’m afraid.

  Come around to my office about eight o’clock,—and you needn’t bring

  that!”

  Thor seemed to understand that he had been insulted, for he scowled and

  began to kick the side of the wagon, shouting, “Go-go, go-go!” Thea

  leaned forward and grabbed the wagon tongue. Dr. Archie stepped in front

  of her and blocked the way. “Why don’t you make him wait? What do you

  let him boss you like that for?”

  “If he gets mad he throws himself, and then I can’t do anything with

  him. When he’s mad he’s lots stronger than me, aren’t you, Thor?” Thea

  spoke with pride, and the idol was appeased. He grunted approvingly as

  his sister began to kick rapidly behind her, and the wagon rattled off

  and soon disappeared in the flying currents of sand.

  That evening Dr. Archie was seated in his office, his desk chair tilted

  back, reading by the light of a hot coal-oil lamp. All the windows were

  open, but the night was breathless after the sandstorm, and his hair was

  moist where it hung over his forehead. He was deeply engrossed in his

  book and sometimes smiled thoughtfully as he read. When Thea Kronborg

  entered quietly and slipped into a seat, he nodded, finished his

  paragraph, inserted a bookmark, and rose to put the book back into the

  case. It was one out of the long row of uniform volumes on the top

  shelf.

  “Nearly every time I come in, when you’re alone, you’re reading one of

  those books,” Thea remarked thoughtfully. “They must be very nice.”

  The doctor dropped back into his swivel chair, the mottled volume still

  in his hand. “They aren’t exactly books, Thea,” he said seriously.

  “They’re a city.”

  “A history, you mean?”

  “Yes, and no. They’re a history of a live city, not a dead one. A

  Frenchman undertook to write about a whole cityful of people, all the

  kinds he knew. And he got them nearly all in, I guess. Yes, it’s very

  interesting. You’ll like to read it some day, when you’re grown up.”

  Thea leaned forward and made out the title on the back, “A Distinguished

  Provincial in Paris.”

  “It doesn’t sound very interesting.”

  “Perhaps not, but it is.” The doctor scrutinized her broad face, low

  enough to be in the direct light from under the green lamp shade. “Yes,”

  he went on with some satisfaction, “I think you’ll like them some day.

  You’re always curious about people, and I expect this man knew more

  about people than anybody that ever lived.”

  “City people or country people?”

  “Both. People are pretty much the same everywhere.”

  “Oh, no, they’re not. The people who go through in the dining-car aren’t

  like us.”

  “What makes you think they aren’t, my girl? Their clothes?”

  Thea shook her head. “No, it’s something else. I don’t know.” Her eyes

  shifted under the doctor’s searching gaze and she glanced up at the row

  of books. “How soon will I be old enough to read them?”

  “Soon enough, soon enough, little girl.” The doctor patted her hand and

  looked at her index finger. “The nail’s coming all right, isn’t it? But

  I think that man makes you practice too much. You have it on your mind

  all the time.” He had noticed that when she talked to him she was always

  opening and shutting her hands. “It makes you nervous.”

  “No, he don’t,” Thea replied stubbornly, watching Dr. Archie return the

  book to its niche.

  He took up a black leather case, put on his hat, and they went down the

  dark stairs into the street. The summer moon hung full in the sky. For

  the time being, it was the great fact in the world. Beyond the edge of

  the town the plain was so white that every clump of sage stood out

  distinct from the sand, and the dunes looked like a shining lake. The

  doctor took off his straw hat and carried it in his hand as they walked

  toward Mexican Town, across the sand.

  North of Pueblo, Mexican settlements were rare in Colorado then. This

  one had come about accidentally. Spanish Johnny was the first Mexican

  who came to Moonstone. He was a painter and decorator, and had been

  working in Trinidad, when Ray Kennedy told him there was a “boom” on in

  Moonstone, and a good many new buildings were going up. A year after

  Johnny settled in Moonstone, his cousin, Famos Serrenos, came to work in

  the brickyard; then Serrenos’ cousins came to help him. During the

  strike, the master mechanic put a gang of Mexicans to
work in the

  roundhouse. The Mexicans had arrived so quietly, with their blankets and

  musical instruments, that before Moonstone was awake to the fact, there

  was a Mexican quarter; a dozen families or more.

  As Thea and the doctor approached the ‘dobe houses, they heard a guitar,

  and a rich barytone voice—that of Famos Serrenos—singing “La

  Golandrina.” All the Mexican houses had neat little yards, with tamarisk

  hedges and flowers, and walks bordered with shells or whitewashed

  stones. Johnny’s house was dark. His wife, Mrs. Tellamantez, was sitting

  on the doorstep, combing her long, blue-black hair. (Mexican women are

  like the Spartans; when they are in trouble, in love, under stress of

  any kind, they comb and comb their hair.) She rose without embarrassment

  or apology, comb in hand, and greeted the doctor.

  “Good-evening; will you go in?” she asked in a low, musical voice. “He

  is in the back room. I will make a light.” She followed them indoors,

  lit a candle and handed it to the doctor, pointing toward the bedroom.

  Then she went back and sat down on her doorstep.

  Dr. Archie and Thea went into the bedroom, which was dark and quiet.

  There was a bed in the corner, and a man was lying on the clean sheets.

  On the table beside him was a glass pitcher, half-full of water. Spanish

  Johnny looked younger than his wife, and when he was in health he was

  very handsome: slender, gold-colored, with wavy black hair, a round,

  smooth throat, white teeth, and burning black eyes. His profile was

  strong and severe, like an Indian’s. What was termed his “wildness”

  showed itself only in his feverish eyes and in the color that burned on

  his tawny cheeks. That night he was a coppery green, and his eyes were

  like black holes. He opened them when the doctor held the candle before

  his face.

  “MI TESTA!” he muttered, “MI TESTA,” doctor. “LA FIEBRE!” Seeing the

  doctor’s companion at the foot of the bed, he attempted a smile.

  “MUCHACHA!” he exclaimed deprecatingly.

  Dr. Archie stuck a thermometer into his mouth. “Now, Thea, you can run

  outside and wait for me.”

  Thea slipped noiselessly through the dark house and joined Mrs.

  Tellamantez. The somber Mexican woman did not seem inclined to talk, but

  her nod was friendly. Thea sat down on the warm sand, her back to the

  moon, facing Mrs. Tellamantez on her doorstep, and began to count the

  moon flowers on the vine that ran over the house. Mrs. Tellamantez was

  always considered a very homely woman. Her face was of a strongly marked

  type not sympathetic to Americans. Such long, oval faces, with a full

  chin, a large, mobile mouth, a high nose, are not uncommon in Spain.

  Mrs. Tellamantez could not write her name, and could read but little.

  Her strong nature lived upon itself. She was chiefly known in Moonstone

  for her forbearance with her incorrigible husband.

  Nobody knew exactly what was the matter with Johnny, and everybody liked

  him. His popularity would have been unusual for a white man, for a

  Mexican it was unprecedented. His talents were his undoing. He had a

  high, uncertain tenor voice, and he played the mandolin with exceptional

  skill. Periodically he went crazy. There was no other way to explain his

  behavior. He was a clever workman, and, when he worked, as regular and

  faithful as a burro. Then some night he would fall in with a crowd at

  the saloon and begin to sing. He would go on until he had no voice left,

  until he wheezed and rasped. Then he would play his mandolin furiously,

  and drink until his eyes sank back into his head. At last, when he was

  put out of the saloon at closing time, and could get nobody to listen to

  him, he would run away—along the railroad track, straight across the

  desert. He always managed to get aboard a freight somewhere. Once beyond

  Denver, he played his way southward from saloon to saloon until he got

  across the border. He never wrote to his wife; but she would soon begin

  to get newspapers from La Junta, Albuquerque, Chihuahua, with marked

  paragraphs announcing that Juan Tellamantez and his wonderful mandolin

  could be heard at the Jack Rabbit Grill, or the Pearl of Cadiz Saloon.

  Mrs. Tellamantez waited and wept and combed her hair. When he was

  completely wrung out and burned up,—all but destroyed,—her Juan always

  came back to her to be taken care of,—once with an ugly knife wound in

  the neck, once with a finger missing from his right hand,—but he played

  just as well with three fingers as he had with four.

  Public sentiment was lenient toward Johnny, but everybody was disgusted

  with Mrs. Tellamantez for putting up with him. She ought to discipline

  him, people said; she ought to leave him; she had no self-respect. In

  short, Mrs. Tellamantez got all the blame. Even Thea thought she was

  much too humble. To-night, as she sat with her back to the moon, looking

  at the moon flowers and Mrs. Tellamantez’s somber face, she was thinking

  that there is nothing so sad in the world as that kind of patience and

  resignation. It was much worse than Johnny’s craziness. She even

  wondered whether it did not help to make Johnny crazy. People had no

  right to be so passive and resigned. She would like to roll over and

  over in the sand and screech at Mrs. Tellamantez. She was glad when the

  doctor came out.

  The Mexican woman rose and stood respectful and expectant. The doctor

  held his hat in his hand and looked kindly at her.

  “Same old thing, Mrs. Tellamantez. He’s no worse than he’s been before.

  I’ve left some medicine. Don’t give him anything but toast water until I

  see him again. You’re a good nurse; you’ll get him out.” Dr. Archie

  smiled encouragingly. He glanced about the little garden and wrinkled

  his brows. “I can’t see what makes him behave so. He’s killing himself,

  and he’s not a rowdy sort of fellow. Can’t you tie him up someway? Can’t

  you tell when these fits are coming on?”

  Mrs. Tellamantez put her hand to her forehead. “The saloon, doctor, the

  excitement; that is what makes him. People listen to him, and it excites

  him.”

  The doctor shook his head. “Maybe. He’s too much for my calculations. I

  don’t see what he gets out of it.”

  “He is always fooled,”—the Mexican woman spoke rapidly and tremulously,

  her long under lip quivering.

  “He is good at heart, but he has no head. He fools himself. You do not

  understand in this country, you are progressive. But he has no judgment,

  and he is fooled.” She stooped quickly, took up one of the white

  conch-shells that bordered the walk, and, with an apologetic inclination

  of her head, held it to Dr. Archie’s ear. “Listen, doctor. You hear

  something in there? You hear the sea; and yet the sea is very far from

  here. You have judgment, and you know that. But he is fooled. To him, it

  is the sea itself. A little thing is big to him.” She bent and placed

  the shell in the white row, with its fellows. Thea took it up softly and

  pressed it to her own ear. The sound in it startled her; it was like

  something
calling one. So that was why Johnny ran away. There was

  something awe-inspiring about Mrs. Tellamantez and her shell.

  Thea caught Dr. Archie’s hand and squeezed it hard as she skipped along

  beside him back toward Moonstone. She went home, and the doctor went

  back to his lamp and his book. He never left his office until after

  midnight. If he did not play whist or pool in the evening, he read. It

  had become a habit with him to lose himself.

  VII

  Thea’s twelfth birthday had passed a few weeks before her memorable call

  upon Mrs. Tellamantez. There was a worthy man in Moonstone who was

  already planning to marry Thea as soon as she should be old enough. His

  name was Ray Kennedy, his age was thirty, and he was conductor on a

  freight train, his run being from Moonstone to Denver. Ray was a big

  fellow, with a square, open American face, a rock chin, and features

  that one would never happen to remember. He was an aggressive idealist,

  a freethinker, and, like most railroad men, deeply sentimental. Thea

  liked him for reasons that had to do with the adventurous life he had

  led in Mexico and the Southwest, rather than for anything very personal.

  She liked him, too, because he was the only one of her friends who ever

  took her to the sand hills. The sand hills were a constant

  tantalization; she loved them better than anything near Moonstone, and

  yet she could so seldom get to them. The first dunes were accessible

  enough; they were only a few miles beyond the Kohlers’, and she could

  run out there any day when she could do her practicing in the morning

  and get Thor off her hands for an afternoon. But the real hills—the

  Turquoise Hills, the Mexicans called them—were ten good miles away, and

  one reached them by a heavy, sandy road. Dr. Archie sometimes took Thea

  on his long drives, but as nobody lived in the sand hills, he never had

  calls to make in that direction. Ray Kennedy was her only hope of

  getting there.

  This summer Thea had not been to the hills once, though Ray had planned

  several Sunday expeditions. Once Thor was sick, and once the organist in

  her father’s church was away and Thea had to play the organ for the

  three Sunday services. But on the first Sunday in September, Ray drove

  up to the Kronborgs’ front gate at nine o’clock in the morning and the