I
came across this wonderful article from The New Yorker (October 2, 2017 issue)
titled “A Walk in Willa Cather’s Prairie: How Nebraska’s Landscape Inspired the Great American Novelist” by Alex Ross.
If
you admire Willa Cather’s writing—and I do—and if you have enjoyed any of her
novels—and I consider her 1918 novel My Ántonia one of the top novels of American
literature—then you should read the rather long essay, and though rather long I
think you will come away with an appreciation of her work, the landscape and
people that influenced that work, and of her as a person. It’s really a fine essay.
Let
me give you a little sample. From the
article’s opening paragraph:
In Webster County,
Nebraska, the prairie rolls in waves, following the contours of a tableland
gouged by rivers and creeks. At the southern edge of the county, a few hundred
feet north of the Nebraska-Kansas border, is a six-hundred-acre parcel of land
called the Willa Cather Memorial Prairie. Cather spent much of her childhood in
Red Cloud, six miles up the road, and for many people who love her writing, and
perhaps for some who don’t, the Cather Prairie is one of the loveliest places
on earth. You park at the top of a hill and follow a path down to a gulch,
where a creek widens into a pond. At the bottom, you no longer see traces of
modern civilization, though you can hear trucks on Route 281 as they clamber out
of the Kansas flats. The land here was never plowed, and with careful
cultivation it preserves the prairie as Cather roamed it, in the
eighteen-eighties—an immemorial zone of grass, trees, birds, water, and wind.
But
Ross, the author of the piece, gives up trying to capture Cather’s prairie
landscapes and decides to let Cather herself describe it:
The only person capable
of doing justice to the Willa Cather Memorial Prairie is the woman who
engendered it. In “My Ántonia,” the orphaned young settler Jim Burden delivers
a rhapsody that many Cather fans can recite by heart:
I wanted to walk straight
on through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which could not be
very far away. The light air about me told me that the world ended here: only
the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a little farther there
would be only sun and sky, and one would float off into them, like the tawny
hawks which sailed over our heads making slow shadows on the grass. . . . I
kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to
happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins,
and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel
like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun
and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be
dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as
naturally as sleep.
The
occasion for this piece is the opening of the National Willa Cather Center, “a seven-million-dollar facility with a climate-controlled archive, apartments
for scholars, museum exhibits, and a bookstore. The complex is the dream
project of the Willa Cather Foundation, which is based in Red Cloud.” The Willa Cather Foundation has a lovely
website where you can access The National Willa Cather Center.
Red Cloud, Nebraska is a small town, and has always been
small town, in the Great Plains in the western part of the
mid-west. In her youth, Nebraska was
clearly part of the famed “west” from which Eastern pioneers rolled their
covered wagons out and migrated to and claimed homesteads to farm.
Red Cloud, which has a
population of about a thousand and retains a farm-oriented economy, belongs to
a select company of literary towns that are permanently inscribed with a
writer’s identity: places like Hannibal, Missouri (Mark Twain) and Oxford,
Mississippi (William Faulkner). Cather depicted Red Cloud in six of her twelve
novels. The town is called Hanover in “O Pioneers!”; Moonstone in “The Song of
the Lark”; Black Hawk in “My Ántonia”; Frankfort in “One of Ours”; Sweet Water
in “A Lost Lady”; and Haverford in “Lucy Gayheart.” There is always a main
street running through the town center, with the wealthier residents to the
west and the poorer ones to the east. The railroad always cuts across to the
south. Often there is a one-and-a-half-story house off the main street, where,
up in an attic room, a girl dreams of being somewhere else. One of the first
achievements of the Cather Foundation, in the nineteen-sixties, was to preserve
the family home, and up in the attic you can see the wallpaper that Cather
installed when she was a child—a pattern of “small red and brown roses on a
yellowish ground,” as she writes in “The Song of the Lark.”
It
is from growing up with this experience that Cather created a panoply of
characters. “Her symphonic landscapes
are inflected with myriad accents, cultures, personal narratives—all stored
away in a prodigious memory.”
Ross
also gets into some of the personal controversy surrounding Cather’s life, most
notably her sexuality. There is much to
suggest she may have been a lesbian, but Ross finds “little trace of sexual
attraction between women in Cather’s writing, but male homosexuality surfaces
more than once.” And Ross explores many
of Cather’s personal letters, especially concerning her long live-in friend
Edith Lewis, and can find no smoking gun writing of a sexual relationship
between the two women or proof of her being lesbian. So why bring it up? Well, we live in sexual times, and this is
The New Yorker. The issue does come up
when I gave my short story analysis of Cather’s fine story “Paul’s Case” here a
few years ago. Ultimately it’s the Nebraska landscape that forms Cather’s characters:
In the end, however, sex
does not dominate Cather’s imagination. True romance lies elsewhere: in her
characters’ relationships with work, art, nature, and the land. In “O
Pioneers!,” Alexandra is said to be the first person who has ever looked on her
corner of Nebraska with “love and yearning”—to see it as a place to be
nurtured, not as territory to be conquered.
And
further down, Ross continues on this theme:
“The great fact was the land itself,” Cather
declares in “O Pioneers!” Humans merely scratch at its surface. Perhaps this
enormous empathy for the natural world is, after all, a displacement of desire,
though the feeling goes too deep to be psychologized away. An overwhelming
attachment to place is often a sign of immovable conservatism, and Cather can
get dangerously close to blood-and-soil lingo, as when Ántonia’s strapping sons
are compared to “the founders of early races.” But her conviction that the land
belongs to no one—“We come and go, but the land is always here,” Alexandra
says—undercuts any tendency toward nationalism and tribalism.
And
that leads to another of the Cather issues, her political leanings. Ross points out Cather’s conservatism but
concludes she’s more of a moderate.
Personally I think he’s somewhat wrong there. While Cather doesn’t integrate conservative
political issues into her work, I think her world view, despite her supposed
non-conforming sexual leanings, was definitely conservative. And I think Ross is right to connect that
conservatism to the land. And another
issue Ross touches on is the feminist issues in Cather’s work.
In her rendering of the
Great Plains and the West, women achieve independence from restrictive roles;
people of many countries coexist; and violence is futile, with guns most often
fired in suicidal despair. As the scholar Susie Thomas writes, Cather “created
an alternative to the male mythology of the West.” In place of Wister’s
slouching cowboy, “O Pioneers!” gives us a “tall, strong girl” with a “glance
of Amazonian fierceness,” wearing a man’s coat. She holds the same pose at the end,
silhouetted against the landscape and gazing westward.
Cather
is a complex feminist, or certainly unconventional. She was not a supporter of the feminist
movements, despite great strong female characters.
That’s
more than enough to whet your appetite to read Ross’s fine article. I whole-heartedly endorse it and of course
recommend reading as much of Cather’s fiction as time allows.
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