The Doomswoman: An Historical Romance of Old California

At ten o’clock the large sala of the Governor’s house was thronged with guests, and the music of the flute, harp, and guitar floated through the open windows:  the musicians sat on the corridor.  How harmonious was the Monterey ball-room of that day!—­the women in their white gowns of every rich material, the men in white trousers, black silk jackets, and low morocco shoes; no color except in the jewels and the rich Southern faces.  The bare ugly sala, from which the uglier furniture had been removed, needed no ornaments with that moving beauty; and even the coffee-colored, high-stomached old people were picturesque.  I wander through those deserted salas sometimes, and, as the tears blister my eyes, imagination and memory people the cold rooms, and I forget that the dashing caballeros and lovely doñas who once called Monterey their own and made it a living picture-book are dust beneath the wild oats and thistles of the deserted cemetery on the hill.  The Americans hardly know that such a people once existed.

Chonita entered the sala at eleven o’clock, looking like a snow queen.  Her gold hair, which always glittered like metal, was arranged to simulate a crown; she wore a gown of Spanish lace, and no jewels but the string of black pearls.  I never had seen her look so cold and so regal.

Estenega stepped out upon the corridor.  “Play El Son,” he said, peremptorily.  Then as the vivacious music began he walked over to Chonita and clapped his hands in front of her as authoritatively as he had bidden the musicians.  What he did was of frequent occurrence in the Californian ball-room, but she looked haughtily rebellious.  He continued to strike his hands together, and looked down upon her with an amused smile which brought the angry color to her face.  Her hesitation aroused the eagerness of the other men, and they cried loudly—­

“El Son!  El Son! señorita.”

She could no longer refuse, and, passing Estenega with head erect, she bent it slightly to the caballeros and passed to the middle of the room, the other guests retreating to the wall.  She stood for a moment, swaying her body slightly; then, raising her gown high enough for the lace to sweep the instep of her small arched feet, she tapped the floor in exact time to the music for a few moments, then glided dreamily along the sala, her willowy body falling in lovely lines, unfolding every detail of El Son, unheeding the low ripple of approval.  Then, dropping her gown, she spun the length of the room like a white cloud caught in a cyclone; her garments whirred, her heels clicked, her motion grew faster and swifter, until the spectators panted for breath.  Then, unmindful of the lively melody, she drifted slowly down, swaying languidly, her long round arms now lolling in the lace of her gown, now lifted to graceful sweep and curve.  The caballeros shouted their appreciation, flinging gold and silver at her feet; never had El Son been given with such variations before.  Never did I see greater enthusiasm until the night which culminated the tragedy of Ysabel Herrera.  Estenega stood enraptured, watching every motion of her body, every expression of her face.  The blood blazed in her cheeks, her eyes were like green stars and sparkled wickedly.  The cold curves of her statuesque mouth were warm and soft, her chin was saucily uplifted, her heavy waving hair fell over her shoulders to her knees, a glittering veil.  Where had The Doomswoman, the proud daughter of the Iturbi y Moncadas, gone?

The girls were a little frightened:  this was not the Son to which they were accustomed.  The young matrons frowned.  The old people exclaimed, “Caramba!” “Mother of God!” “Holy Mary!” I was aghast; well as I knew her, this was a piece of audacity for which I was unprepared.

As the dance went on and she grew more and more like an untamed wood-nymph, even the caballeros became vaguely uneasy, hotly as they admired the beautiful wild thing enchaining their gaze.  I looked again at Estenega and knew that his heart beat in passionate sympathy.

“I have found her,” he murmured, exultantly.  “She is California, magnificent, audacious, incomprehensible, a creature of storms and convulsions and impregnable calm; the germs of all good and all bad in her; a woman sublimated.  Every husk of tradition has fallen from her.”

Once, as she passed Estenega, her eyes met his.  They lit with a glance of recognition, then the lids drooped and she floated on.  He left the room; and when he returned she sat on a window-seat, surrounded by caballeros, as calm and as pale as when he had commanded her to dance.  He did not approach her, but, joined me at the upper end of the sala, where I stood with Alvarado, the Castros, Don Thomas Larkin, the United States Consul, and a half-dozen others.  We were discussing Chonita’s interpretation of El Son.

“That was a strange outbreak for a Spanish girl,” said Señor Larkin.

“She is Chonita Iturbi y Moncada,” said Castro, severely.  “She is like no other woman, and what she does is right.”

The consul bowed.  “True, coronel.  I have seen no one here like Doña Chonita.  There is a delicious uniformity about the Californian women:  so reserved, shrinking yet dignified, ever on their guard.  Doña Chonita changed so swiftly from the typical woman of her race to an houri, almost a bacchante,—­only an extraordinary refinement of nature kept her this side of the line,—­that an American would be tempted to call her eccentric.”

Alvarado lifted his hand and pointed through the window to the stars.  “The golden coals in the blue fire of heaven are not higher above censure,” he said.

Doña Modeste raised her eyebrows.  “Coals are safest when burned on the domestic hearth and carefully watched; safer still when they have fallen to ashes.”

“What is this rumor of pirates on the coast?” demanded Alvarado, abruptly.

I put my hand through Estenega’s arm and drew him aside.  The music of the contradanza was playing, and we stood against the wall.

“Well, you know Chonita better since that dance,” I said to him.  “Polar stars are not unlikely to have volcanoes.  Better let the deeps alone, my friend; the lava might scorch you badly.  Women of complex natures are interesting studies, but dangerous to love.  They wear the nerves to a point, and the tired brain and heart turn gratefully to the crystalline, idle-minded woman.  She is too much like yourself, Diego.  And you,—­how long could you love anybody?  Love with you means curiosity.”

His face looked like chalk for a moment, an indication with him of suppressed and violent emotion.  Then he turned his head and regarded me with a slight smile.  “Not altogether.  You forget that the most faithless men have been the most faithful when they have found the one woman.  Curiosity and fickleness are merely parts of a restless seeking,—­nothing more.”

“I was sure you would acquit yourself with credit!  But you have an unholy charm, and you never hesitate to exert it.”

He laughed outright.  “One would think I was a rattlesnake.  My unholy charm consists of a reasonable amount of address born of a great weakness for women and some personal magnetism,—­the latter the offspring of the habit of mental concentration—­”

“And an inexorable will—­”

“Perhaps.  As to the exercise of it—­why not? Vive la bagatelle!”

“It is useless to argue with you.  Are you going to let that girl alone?”

“She is the only girl in the Californias whom I shall not let alone.”

I could have shaken him.  “To what end?  And her brother?  I have often wondered which would rule you in a crisis, your head or your passions.”

“It would depend upon the crisis.  I am afraid you are right,—­that altiloquent Reinaldo will give trouble.”

“Is it true that he has been conspiring with Carillo, and that an extraordinary and secret session of the Departmental Junta has been called?”

He looked down upon me with his grimmest smile.  “You curious little woman!  You must not put your white fingers into the Departmental pie.  If you had been a man, with as good a brain as you have for a woman, you would have been an ornament to our politics.  But as it is—­pardon me—­the better for our balancing country the less you have to do with it.”

I could feel my eyes snap.  “You respect no woman’s mind,” I said, savagely; “nothing but the woman in her.  But I will not quarrel with you.  Tell that baby over there to come and waltz with me.”

At dawn, as we entered our room, I seized Chonita by the shoulders and shook her.  “What did you mean by such a performance?” I demanded.  “It was unprecedented!”

She threw back her head and laughed.  “I could not help it,” she said.  “First I felt an irresistible desire to show Monterey that I dared do anything I chose.  And then I have a wild something in me which has often threatened to break loose before; and to-night it did.  It was that man.  He made me.”

“Ay, Dios!” I thought, “it has begun already.”