The Professors House

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The Professor's House
Willa Cather
Published: 1925
For Jan, because he likes narrative.
"The Family"


Chapter 1
The moving was over and done. Professor St. Peter was alone in the dismantled house
where he had lived ever since his marriage, where he had worked out his career and
brought up his two daughters. It was almost as ugly as it is possible for a house to be;
square, three stories in height, painted the colour of ashes -- the front porch just too
narrow for comfort, with a slanting floor and sagging steps. As he walked slowly about
the empty, echoing rooms on that bright September morning, the Professor regarded
thoughtfully the needless inconveniences he had put up with for so long; the stairs that
were too steep, the halls that were too cramped, the awkward oak mantles with thick
round posts crowned by bumptious wooden balls, over green-tiled fire-places.
Certain wobbly stair treads, certain creaky boards in the upstairs hall, had made him
wince many times a day for twenty-odd years -- and they still creaked and wobbled. He
had a deft hand with tools, he could easily have fixed them, but there were always so
many things to fix, and there was not time enough to go round. He went into the kitchen,
where he had carpentered under a succession of cooks, went up to the bath-room on the
second floor, where there was only a painted tin tub; the taps were so old that no plumber
could ever screw them tight enough to stop the drip, the window could only be coaxed up
and down by wriggling, and the doors of the linen closet didn't fit. He had sympathized
with his daughters' dissatisfaction, though he could never quite agree with them that the
bath should be the most attractive room in the house. He had spent the happiest years of
his youth in a house at Versailles where it distinctly was not, and he had known many
charming people who had no bath at all. However, as his wife said: "If your country has
contributed one thing, at least, to civilization, why not have it?" Many a night, after
blowing out his study lamp, he had leaped into that tub, clad in his pyjamas, to give it
another coat of some one of the many paints that were advertised to behave like porcelain,
and didn't.

The Professor in pyjamas was not an unpleasant sight; for looks, the fewer clothes he had
on, the better. Anything that clung to his body showed it to be built upon extremely good
bones, with the slender hips and springy shoulders of a tireless swimmer. Though he was
born on Lake Michigan, of mixed stock (Canadian French on one side, and American
farmers on the other), St. Peter was commonly said to look like a Spaniard. That was
possibly because he had been in Spain a good deal, and was an authority on certain
phases of Spanish history. He had a long brown face, with an oval chin over which he
wore a close trimmed Van-Dyke, like a tuft of shiny black fur. With this silky, very black
hair, he had a tawny skin with gold lights in it, a hawk nose, and hawk-like eyes -- brown
and gold and green. They were set in ample cavities, with plenty of room to move about,
under thick, curly, black eyebrows that turned up sharply at the outer ends, like military
moustaches. His wicked-looking eyebrows made his students call him Mephistopheles --
and there was no evading the searching eyes underneath them; eyes that in a flash could
pick out a friend or an unusual stranger from a throng. They had lost none of their fire,
though just now the man behind them was feeling a diminution of ardour.
His daughter Kathleen, who had done several successful studies of him in water-colour,
had once said: -- "The thing that really makes Papa handsome is the modelling of his
head between the top of his ear and his crown; it is quite the best thing about him." That
part of his head was high, polished, hard as bronze, and the close-growing black hair
threw off a streak of light along the rounded ridge where the skull was fullest. The mould
of his head on the side was so individual and definite, so far from casual, that it was more
like a statue's head than a man's.
From one of the dismantled windows the Professor happened to look out into his back
garden, and at that cheerful sight he went quickly downstairs and escaped from the dusty
air and brutal light of the empty rooms.
His walled-in garden had been the comfort