The Doomswoman: An Historical Romance of Old California

Casa Grande,[A] the mansion of the Iturbi y Moncadas in Santa Barbara, stood at the right of the Presidio, facing the channel.  A mile behind, under the shadow of the gaunt rocky hills curving about the valley, was the long white Mission, with its double towers, corridor of many arches, and sloping roof covered with red tiles.  Between was the wild valley where cattle grazed among the trees and the massive bowlders.  The red-tiled white adobe houses of the Presidio and of the little town clustered under its wing, the brown mud huts of the Indians, were grouped in the foreground of the deep valley.

The great house of the Iturbi y Moncadas, erected in the first years of the century, was built about three sides of a court, measuring one hundred feet each way.  Like most of the adobes of its time, it had but one story.  A wide pillared corridor, protected by a sloping roof, faced the court, which was as bare and hard as the floor of a ball-room.  Behind the dwelling were the manufactories and huts of the Indian retainers.  Don Guillermo Iturbi y Moncada was the magnate of the South.  His ranchos covered four hundred thousand acres; his horses and cattle were unnumbered.  His Indians, carpenters, coopers, saddlers, shoemakers, weavers, manufacturers of household staples, supplied the garrison and town with the necessaries of life; he also did a large trading business in hides and tallow.  Rumor had it that in the wooden tower built against the back of the house he kept gold by the bushel-basketful; but no one called him miser, for he gave the poor of the town all they ate and wore, and kept a supply of drugs for their sick.  So beloved and revered was he that when earthquakes shook the town, or fires threatened it from the hills, the poor ran in a body to the court-yard of Casa Grande and besought his protection.  They never passed him without saluting to the ground, nor his house without bending their heads.  And yet they feared him, for he was an irascible old gentleman at times, and thumped unmercifully when in a temper.  Chonita, alone, could manage him always.

When I returned to Santa Barbara with Chonita after her visit to Monterey, the yellow fruit hung in the padres’ orchard, the grass was burning brown, sky and water were the hard blue of metal.

The afternoon of our arrival, Don Guillermo, Chonita, and I were on the long middle corridor of the house:  in Santa Barbara one lived in the air.  The old don sat on the long green bench by the sala door.  His heavy, flabby, leathery face had no wrinkles but those which curved from the corners of the mouth to the chin.  The thin upper lip was habitually pressed hard against the small protruding under one, the mouth ending in straight lines which seemed no part of the lips.  His small slanting eyes, usually stern, could snap with anger, as they did to-day.  The nose rose suddenly from the middle of his face; it might have been applied by a child sculpturing with putty; the flat bridge was crossed by erratic lines.  A bang of grizzled hair escaped from the black silk handkerchief wound as tightly as a turban about his head.  He wore short clothes of dark brown cloth, the jacket decorated with large silver buttons, a red damask vest, shoes of embroidered deer-skin, and a cravat of fine linen.

Chonita, in a white gown, a pale-green reboso about her shoulders, her arms crossed, her head thoughtfully bent forward, walked slowly up and down before him.

“Holy God!” cried the old man, pounding the floor with his stick.  “That they have dared to arrest my son!—­the son of Guillermo Iturbi y Moncada!  That Alvarado, my friend and thy host, should have permitted it!”

“Do not blame Alvarado, my father.  Remember, he must listen to the Departmental Junta; and this is their work.”  “Fool that I am!” she added to herself, “why do I not tell who alone is to blame?  But I need no one to help me hate him!”

“Is it true that this Estenega of whom I hear so much is a member of the Junta?”

“It may be.”

“If so, it is he, he alone, who has brought dishonor upon my house.  Again they have conquered!”

“This Estenega I met—­and who was compadre with me for the baby—­is little in California, my father.  If it be he who is a member of the Junta, he could hardly rule such men as Alvarado, Jimeno, and Castro.  I saw no other Estenega.”

“True!  I must have other enemies in the North; but I had not known of it.  But they shall learn of my power in the South.  Don Juan de la Borrasca went to-day to Los Angeles with a bushel of gold to bail my son, and both will be with us the day after to-morrow.  A curse upon Carillo—­but I will speak of it no more.  Tell me, my daughter,—­God of my soul, but I am glad to have thee back!—­what thoughtest thou of this son of the Estenegas?  Is it Ramon, Esteban, or Diego?  I have seen none of them since they were little ones.  I remember Diego well.  He had lightning in his little tongue, and the devil in his brain.  I liked him, although he was the son of my enemy; and if he had been an Iturbi y Moncada I would have made a great man of him.  Ay! but he was quick.  One day in Monterey, he got under my feet and I fell flat, much imperilling my dignity, for it was on Alvarado Street, and I was a member of the Territorial Deputation.  I could have beaten him, I was so angry; but he scrambled to his little feet, and, helping me to mine, he said, whilst dodging my stick, ’Be not angry, señor.  I gave my promise to the earth that thou shouldst kiss her, for all the world has prayed that she should not embrace thee for ninety years to come.’  What could I do?  I gave him a cake.  Thou smilest, my daughter; but thou wilt not commend the enemy of thy house, no?  Ah, well, we grow less bitter as we grow old; and although I hated his father I liked Diego.  Again, I remember, I was in Monterey, and he was there; his father and I were both members of the Deputation.  Caramba! what hot words passed between us!  But I was thinking of Diego.  I took a volume of Shakespeare from him one day.  ’Thou art too young to read such books,’ I said.  ’A baby reading what the good priests allow not men to read.  I have not read this heretic book of plays, and yet thou dost lie there on thy stomach and drink in its wickedness.’  ‘It is true,’ he said, and how his steel eyes did flash; ’but when I am as old as you, señor, my stomach will be flat and my head will be big.  Thou art the enemy of my father, but—­hast thou noticed?—­thy stomach is bigger than his, and he has conquered thee in speech and in politics more times than thou hast found vengeance for.  Ay!—­and thy ranchos have richer soil and many more cattle, but he has a library, Don Guillermo, and thou hast not.’  I spanked him then and there; but I never forgot what he said, and thou hast read what thou listed.  I would not that the children of Alejandro Estenega should know more than those of Guillermo Iturbi y Moncada.”

“Thou hast cause to be proud of Reinaldo, for he sparkles like the spray of the fountain, and words are to him like a shower of leaves in autumn.  And yet, and yet,” she added, with angry candor, “he has not a brain like Diego Estenega. He is not a man, but a devil.”

“A good brain has always a devil at the wheel; sharp eyes have sharper nerves behind; and lightning from a big soul flashes fear into a little one.  Diego is not a devil,—­I remember once I had a headache, and he bathed my head, and the water ran down my neck and gave me a cold which put me to bed for a week,—­but he is the devil’s godson, and were he not the son of my enemy I should love him.  His father was cruel and vicious—­but smart, Holy Mary!  Diego has his brain; but he has, too, the kind heart and gentle manner—­Ay!  Holy God!—­Come, come:  here are the horses.  Call Prudencia, and we will go to the bark and see what the good captain has brought to tempt us.”

Four horses led by vaqueros, had entered the court-yard.

“Prudencia,” called Chonita.

A door opened, and a girl of small figure, with solemn dark eyes and cream-like skin, her hair hanging in heavy braids to her feet, stepped upon the corridor, draping a pink reboso about her head.

“I am here, my cousin,” she said, walking with all the dignity of the Spanish woman, despite her plump and inconsiderable person.  “Thou art rested, Doña Eustaquia?  Do we go to the ship, my uncle? and shall we buy this afternoon?  God of my life!  I wonder has he a high comb to make me look tall, and flesh-colored stockings.  My own are gone with holes.  I do not like white—­”

“Hush thy chatter,” said her uncle.  “How can I tell what the captain has until I see?  Come, my children.”

We sprang to our saddles, Don Guillermo mounted heavily, and we cantered to the beach, followed by the ox-cart which would carry the fragile cargo home.  A boat took us to the bark, which sat motionless on the placid channel.  The captain greeted us with the lively welcome due to eager and frequent purchasers.

“Now, curb thy greed,” cried Don Guillermo, as the girls dropped down the companion-way, “for thou hast more now than thou canst wear in five years.  God of my soul! if a bark came every day they would want every shred on board.  My daughter could tapestry the old house with the shawls she has.”

When I reached the cabin I found the table covered with silks, satins, crêpe, shawls, combs, articles of lacquer-ware, jewels, silk stockings, slippers, spangled tulle, handkerchiefs, lace, fans.  The girls’ eyes were sparkling.  Chonita clapped her hands and ran around the table, pressing to her lips the beautiful white things she quickly segregated, running her hand eagerly over the little slippers, hanging the lace about her shoulders, twisting a rope of garnets in her yellow hair.

“Never have they been so beautiful, Eustaquia!  Is it not so, my Prudencia?” she cried to the girl, who was curled on one corner of the table, gloating over the treasures she knew her uncle’s generosity would make her own.  “Look, how these little diamonds flash!  And the embroidery on this crêpe!—­a dozen eyes went out ay! yi!  This satin is like a tile!  These fans were made in Spain!  This is as big as a windmill.  God of my soul!”—­she threw a handful of yellow sewing-silk upon a piece of white satin; “Ana shall embroider this gown,—­the golden poppies of California on a bank of mountain snow.”  She suddenly seized a case of topaz and a piece of scarlet silk and ran over to me:  I being a Montereña, etiquette forbade me to purchase in Santa Barbara.  “Thou must have these, my Eustaquia.  They will become thee well.  And wouldst thou like any of my white things?  Mary! but I am selfish.  Take what thou wilt, my friend.”

To refuse would be to spoil her pleasure and insult her hospitality:  so I accepted the topaz—­of which I had six sets already—­and the silk,—­whose color prevailed in my wardrobe,—­and told her that I detested white, which did not suit my weather-dark skin, and she was as blind and as pleased as a child.

“But come, come,” she cried.  “My father is not so generous when he has to wait too long.”

She gathered the mass of stuff in her arms and staggered up the companion-way.  I followed, leaving Prudencia raking the trove her short arms would not hold.

“Ay, my Chonita!” she wailed, “I cannot carry that big piece of pink satin and that vase.  And I have only two pairs of slippers and one fan.  Ay, Cho-n-i-i-ta, look at those shawls!  Mother of God, suppose Valencia Menendez comes—­”

“Do not weep on the silk and spoil what thou hast,” called down Chonita from the top step.  “Thou shalt have all thou canst wear for a year.”

She reached the deck and stood panting and imperious before her father.  “All!  All!  I must have all!” she cried.  “Never have they been so fine, so rich.”

“Holy Mary!” shrieked Don Guillermo.  “Dost thou think I am made of doubloons, that thou wouldst buy a whole ship’s cargo?  Thou shalt have a quarter; no more,—­not a yard!”

“I will have all!” And the stately daughter of the Iturbi y Moncadas stamped her little foot upon the deck.

“A third,—­not a yard more.  And diamonds!  Holy Heaven!  There is not gold enough in the Californias to feed the extravagance of the Señorita Doña Chonita Iturbi y Moncada.”

She managed to bend her body in spite of her burden, her eyes flashing saucily above the mass of tulle which covered the rest of her face.

“And not fine raiment enough in the world to accord with the state of the only daughter of the Señor Don Guillermo Iturbi y Moncada, the delight and the pride of his old age.  Wilt thou send these things to the North, to be worn by an Estenega?  Thy Chonita will cry her eyes so red that she will be known as the ugly witch of Santa Barbara, and Casa Grande will be like a tomb.”

“Oh, thou spoilt baby!  Thou wilt have thy way—­” At this moment Prudencia appeared.  Nothing whatever could be seen of her small person but her feet; she looked like an exploded bale of goods.  “What! what!” gasped Don Guillermo.  “Thou little rat!  Thou wouldst make a Christmas doll of thyself with satin that is too heavy for thy grandmother, and eke out thy dumpy inches with a train?  Oh, Mother of God!” He turned to the captain, who was smoking complacently, assured of the issue.  “I will let them carry these things home; but to-morrow one-half, at least, comes back.”  And he stamped wrathfully down the deck.

“Send the rest,” said Chonita to the captain, “and thou shalt have a bag of gold to-night.”

[Footnote A:  In writing of Casa Grande and its inmates, no reference to the distinguished De la Guerra family of Santa Barbara is intended, beyond the description of their house and state and of the general characteristics of the founder of the family fortunes in California.]