Return from Bohemia: A Painter's Story, Part I【翻译】

C ONT E NTS
Chapter 1 - Speak to the Earth 1
Chap ter 2 - And It Shall Teach Thee 32
Chapter 3 - Whom the Lord Loveth He
Chasteneth 73
Chapter 4 - The Kindly Fruits o f the Earth 105
Chapter 5 - The Harvest is Past 146
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Chapter 1
SPEAK TO THE EARTH
In Iowa, the pageantry of growing things Is
forever before the eye. In early A p r il, as soon as the
fr o s t is out of the ground, the farmer seeds h is o a ts .
In May, the oats are up in a film o f s ilk y green as he
turns over the black loam in the adjoining sod fie ld s .
He disc s and harrows the ground, then plants h is c om .
By June, tbe green shoots of com have
appeared, running in even rows over the r o llin g
countryside. Light winds shimmer in lush waves through
the oat fie Id s . Another month o f sunshine and ra in , and
the old figh t with the stubborn children of the prairie —
the quack grass, the wild morning glo ry , and the button
weed — and the corn i s k n e e -h ig i, turning fu l l leaves
to the wind. This is the time o f tbs f i r s t haying
when the fragrance of clever is in the a ir .
July is harvest time for o a ts . Blonde
and r ip e , the grain banks swell the prAirie. The
grain is cut and shocks appear, sun-yellow,on f ie ld s
striped green and gdLd. Threshing fo llow s , with the
shriek of machines and swirling clouds of ch a ff. The
shocks disappear and straw-stacks a r is e , repeating the
shapes of the h i l l s .
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In the blaze of August, the cornfields
are majestic seas of dark, burnished green* In
another month, the leaves begin to yellow and the
spidery tassels bleach to bone-white against the
deep blue o f September sky* The approach o f the
Equinox is the signal for the farmer t o cut his
fodder-corn. Soon the pyramids o f brown stalks stand
evenly spaced on the bare stubble rows. In October,
the uncut corn is ready to pick, and over the countryside
on frosty mornings can be heard, like gunfire,
the crack of the hard ears pitched against the bangboards
of farmers* wagons. After the husking, cattle
push n o is i ly among the b r i t t le stalks, feeding on what
the buskers have l e f t . And winds charged with the f i r s t
snows mourn through the desdLate f ie ld s , rustling the
dead leaves and the empty shucks.
Before the winter fr o s t sets in, as his la s t
t i l la g e of the year, the farmer prepares for the next
spring with fa l l plowing.
Such is the drama of the seasons in Iowa,
the cycle of the growth of crops. But doainating the
pageantry — the golden sweep of oatfields in midsummer,
the majesty o f tasseled com in September,
the sere remains of the harvest in the bleak months
o f winter - - dominating a l l this is s o l id ity , the
permanence, of the ground i t s e l f . The naked earth
in rounded , massive contours, asserts i t s e l f through
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everything la id upon i t .
Fran glacial times the ground has enforced
i t s sovereignty, thrusting away a l l that would obscure
i t s surface* When f i r s t seen by white men, this
midwest prairie was like no other region known to them —
& vast, open sea of sail* I t was free o f the forest
and undergrowth c onmon to other American regions. Its
surface was not roughened by stone and rubble as were
the h i l ls of New England. Even the prairie grass was
kept in check by great f ir e s that swept each spring
and fa l l from river t o r iv e r . The deep loam i t s e l f
was the surface. Rich and i l l im ita b le , i t awaited the
plow.
Three generations o f cultivation have brought
tuildings, trees, fencing, and broad acreages o f thriving
crops. But a l l these, by c cntrast to the land, are but
flimsy, transient things. They have not altered the
primal character of the region; rather, they have
accentuated the structural s o l id ity o f the ground and
the assertiveness o f the raw s o i l .
How strongly a people can r e f le c t the individuality
o f the region in which they l iv e I I t was
thus with the immigrants who came from the East to
build upon this p ra ir ie . Finding no woodlands or
deep valleys to shelter them, they had to learn a
special intimacy with the s o i l . They had t o adapt
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themselves to the vast openness o f the prairie and
the ubiquitous light of an unbroken sky. And they and
their children developed a character distinctive from
that of other frontier peoples , a nature akin to that
of the land i t s e l f . One could see i t in their eyes.
I saw i t in the eyes of my father and mother — a
quality bleak, far-away, timeless — the severe but
generous vision o f the midwest pioneer.
More than thirty years have passed since 1
was a boy on an Iowa farm* Yet these early scenes
and experiences remain clearer than any I have knom
since. The rhythms of the low h i l l s , the patterns of
crops upon them, the mystery o f the seasons, and,
above a l l , a feeling for the integrity of the ground
i t s e l f — these are my deep-rooted heritage.
I want to set down here the record o f these
most vivid years. I want t o t e l l the story o f my
father and mother. In a sense, the ground is the
principal character in the narrative and the l iv e s
chronicled but minor figures in its timeless history . . .
patterns that come and go while the ground i t s e l f
remains unchanged.
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I
A mid-day in early June o f the year 1898*
I sat on an island o f sod beneath an enormous
cottonwood tree that sp l it the middle o f the road in
front of our farm: a small boy in faded blue overalls, —
fa t , pug-nosed, with a round pinkish face and small
blue eyes* Shadows from spruce, catalpa and cottonwood
trees bent over the level farmyard and the patch of
road in fr ait of i t , making a pool o f deep shade.
To my six-year old mind at that particular
moment, no problem in heaven or earth existed other
than the mysteries of a garter-snake writhing and
spitting on the fresh earth o f a molehill. I sat
cross-legged and watched sdLeranly and intently, prepared
to reach out quickly i f the snake began to glide
away.
The scene is as clear tome as a passage
out of a singularly vivid dream: the b r i l l ia n t stripes
of the garter snake against the black s o i l , the coolness
of the leafy shade, the lazy quiet o f the country at
noon.
Outside the oasis o f the farmyard, the
sun was glaring down on the ro l l in g cornfields , baking
the s o i l to dull pink clods between the rows of young
com. The sky was thin blue, flecked with a few pale
shreds o f cloud. No sound c oul d be heard except the
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lazy sawing of crickets and an occasional rich bird-note.
The countryside was fixed for an intense, breathless
moment in the sleeping lu l l of noon.
Presently I heard tbe ra t t le o f the harness
and father’ s "Hhoat" as he drove the horses into the
famyard t o feed in the barn during the noon meal.
I heard my mother calling my older brother, who had
been out in the f ie ld s with father. Then came two
piercing whistles and the broad blurred sound of my
brother calling me between cupped hands.
Leaving the snake reluctantly, I got up and
walked along the drive into the farmyard. I picked
my way with care t o avoid the sharp places in the
rutted road. Father was washing at the bench on the
back stoop. His broad, blue-shirted back was dark
with sweat fron the morning's work in the f ie ld s .
Over by the rain barrel, Dave Peters, the
hired man, was showing my brother Frank sane kind o f
a chain puzzle carved out o f wood.
"Hurry and get cleaned up, son," said
father, scrubbing his face dry.
I stepped into the hot kitchen. I t was
f i l l e d with the arana of coffee and the yeasty smell
of freshly baked bread. Mother was at the big woodrange,
dishing food out o f the steaming k e t t le s : hams,
greens, and potatoes boiled in their skins. Jack, the
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baby, was already in his high-chair.
"Dinner’ s a l l ready, son," mother said.
I drew a pan of cistern water at the sink
and took i t outside to the wash bench on the back
stoop. When * had finished washing, * doused my head,
as the grown-ups did, and c embed back my hair, wet
and sleek.
By the tine I arrived at the table, the
others were already seated. Father sat at the head
of the table. Mother at the other end, with the
baby beside her. Frank, a ten year old, round-faced
and chunky like me, but o f darler conplexion, was
next tome. Opposite us, the hired man hunched over
his pi ace like a great beaky bird. Dishes heaped with
steaming food were on the table and the ironstone plate
at each place lay bottom up. Before father served, he
bowed his head.
"Heavenly Father. Bless th i s , our food,
that i t may help us in our da lly werk to do Thy w i l l .
We ask i t in Jesus’ name, amen."
While 1 bowed my head, 1 could not r e s i s t
opening my eyes wide enougi t o peek at the trade-mark
on the back of the heavy dinner p la te : the b a ttle o f a
lion and a unicorn. This strange c o n f lic t mystified
me. Once 1 had heard Frahk say that i f the lion were
as hungry as he was, i t would make short work o f t t e t
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unicorn.
For several minutes, we ate in silence except
for the baby who blubbered t o himself and drummed on his
plate until mother gently scolded him.
” 1 see that the brindie cow has broken through
the fence again,” said father, at la s t , as he helped
himself t o mo re sugar for his co f fe e . ”She’ s over in
Abbotts* pasture. I want you to go over after dinner
and bring her back, Frank.”
Frank’ s face ligated up at this important
as si game nt.
”And Dave, as soon as you get a l i t t l e time,
w i l l you f ix a yoke for her? This is the third time
she’ s broken fence and I ’m tired o f i t . I saw a forked
branch down in the cordwood that you can u s e .”
Dave Peters grunted affirmatively without
looking up fran h is food.
”Pity ’ s sakes,” said mother to the baby.
”Will you quit playing with your food and eat something?”
She wiped his face and put a spoonful of potato Into
h is mouth.
%en the la s t morsel o f apple pie had
disappeared from the plates, the menfolk l e f t the
table with a heavy scraping o f chairs.
” I t will take us until tonorrow noon to
f in ish plowing the corn,” father said to mother as he
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went out o f the door* " i ' l l build your wash bench for
you t cm or row afternoon*w
Mother disappeared in to the bedroom to put
the baby to bed and I followed tbe men out the back door.
Outside, the farmyard was lik e a griddle
under the mid-day sun* The hot d ir t burned my bare fe e t
as I hurried across into tbe tepid shadow o f the bam*
Ffrank started down the h i l l t o round up tbe brindle
cow, with Shep, the big tan-and-White c o ll ie bounding
along beside him* Father and Dave Peters led the
horses from tbe barn and se t about hitching the two
teams t o tbe plows*
I stood watching Dave Peters harness
the big dappled h o r se s , fascinated by the way he
grumbled at them as he pulled the straps tight* In
my eyes, everything about tbe hired man was tinged with
mystery. His hawk-like fa c e , long reddish beard, and
angular figure did n o t seem to belong to th is woiUd.
Bven the way he walked was queer — striding along,
hunched over and scowling at the ground, as i f bound
on sane secret mission. I never saw him laugh or smile,
and seme times he wouldn’ t say a dozen werds in the course
of a Whole day.

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