The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

That was a gay Christmas at Monterey, despite the barricades in the street.  News had come of the defeat of Kearney at San Pasqual, and the Montereños, inflated with hope and pride, gave little thought to the fact that his forces were now joined with Stockton’s at San Diego.

On Christmas eve light streamed from every window, bonfires flared on the hills; the streets were illuminated, and every one was abroad.  The clear warm night was ablaze with fireworks; men and women were in their gala gowns; rockets shot upward amidst shrieks of delight which mingled oddly with the rolling of drums at muster; even the children caught the enthusiasm, religious and patriotic.

“I suppose you would be glad to see even your friends driven out,” said Brotherton to Doña Eustaquia, as they walked through the brilliant town toward the church:  bells called them to witness the dramatic play of “The Shepherds.”

“I be glad to see the impertinent flag come down,” said she, frankly; “but you can make resignation from the army, and have a little store on Alvarado Street.  You can have beautiful silks and crêpes from America.  I buy of you.”

“Thanks,” he said grimly.  “You would put a dunce cap on poor America, and stand her in a corner.  If I resign, Doña Eustaquia, it will be to become a ranchero, not a shopkeeper.  To tell the truth, I have little desire to leave California again.”

“But you were make for the fight,” she said, looking up with some pride at the tall military figure, the erect head and strong features.  “You not were make to lie in the hammock and horseback all day.”

“But I should do a good deal else, señora.  I should raise cattle with some method; and I should have a library—­and a wife.”

“Ah! you go to marry?”

“Some day, I hope.  It would be lonely to be a ranchero without a wife.”

“Truly.”

“What is the matter with those women?”

A group of old women stood by the roadside.  Their forms were bent, their brown faces gnarled like apples.  Some were a shapeless mass of fat, others were parchment and bone; about the head and shoulders of each was a thick black shawl.  Near them stood a number of young girls clad in muslin petticoats, flowered with purple and scarlet.  Bright satin shoes were on their feet, cotton rebosas covered their pretty, pert little heads.  All were looking in one direction, whispering and crossing themselves.

Doña Eustaquia glanced over her shoulder, then leaned heavily on Brotherton’s arm.

“It is Benicia,” she said.  “It is because she was cursed and is with child that they cross themselves.”

Brotherton held her arm closely and laid his hand on hers, but he spoke sternly.

“The curse is not likely to do her any harm.  You prayed that she should die when happiest, and you have done your best to make her wretched.”

She did not reply, and they walked slowly onward.  Benicia followed, leaning on the arm of an Indian servant.  Her friends avoided her, for they bitterly resented Altimira’s death.  But she gave them little regret.  Since her husband could not be with her on this Christmas eve, she wished only for reconciliation with her mother.  In spite of the crowd she followed close behind Doña Eustaquia and Brotherton, holding her head proudly, but ready to fall at the feet of the woman she worshipped.

“My friend,” said Doña Eustaquia, after a moment, “perhaps it is best that I do not forgive her.  Were she happy, then might the curse come true.”

“She has enough else to make her unhappy.  Besides, who ever heard of a curse coming true?  It has worked its will already for the matter of that.  You kept your child from happiness with her husband during the brief time she had him.  The bitterness of death is a small matter beside the bitterness of life.  You should be satisfied.”

“You are hard, my friend.”

“I see your other faults only to respect and love them.”

“Does she look ill, Captain?”

“She cannot be expected to look like the old Benicia.  Of course she looks ill, and needs care.”

“Look over the shoulder.  Does she walk heavily?”

“Very.  But as haughtily as do you.”

“Talk of other things for a little while, my friend.”

“Truly there is much to claim the interest to-night.  This may be an old scene to you, but it is novel and fascinating to me.  How lovely are those stately girls, half hidden by their rebosas, telling their beads as they hurry along.  It is the very coquetry of religion.  And those—­But here we are.”

The church was handsomer without than within, for the clever old padres that built it had more taste than their successors.  About the whitewashed walls of the interior were poor copies of celebrated paintings—­the Passion of Christ, and an extraordinary group of nude women and grinning men representing the temptation of St. Anthony.  In a glass case a beautiful figure of the Saviour reclined on a stiff couch clumsily covered with costly stuffs.  The Virgin was dressed much like the aristocratic ladies of Monterey, and the altar was a rainbow of tawdry colours.

But the ceremonies were interesting, and Brotherton forgot Benicia for the hour.  After the mass the priest held out a small waxen image of the infant Jesus, and all approached and kissed it.  Then from without came the sound of a guitar; the worshippers arose and ranged themselves against the wall; six girls dressed as shepherdesses; a man representing Lucifer; two others, a hermit and the lazy vagabond Bartola; a boy, the archangel Gabriel, entered the church.  They bore banners and marched to the centre of the building, then acted their drama with religious fervour.

The play began with the announcement by Gabriel of the birth of the Saviour, and exhortations to repair to the manger.  On the road came the temptation of Lucifer; the archangel appeared once more; a violent altercation ensued in which all took part, and finally the prince of darkness was routed.  Songs and fanciful by-play, brief sermons, music, gay and solemn, diversified the strange performance.  When all was over, the players were followed by an admiring crowd to the entertainment awaiting them.

“Is it not beautiful—­our Los Pastores?” demanded Doña Eustaquia, looking up at Brotherton, her fine face aglow with enthusiasm.  “Do not you feel the desire to be a Catholic, my friend?”

“Rather would I see two good Catholics united, dear señora,” and he turned suddenly to Benicia, who also had remained in the church, almost at her mother’s side.

“Mamacita!” cried Benicia.

Doña Eustaquia opened her arms and caught the girl passionately to her heart; and Brotherton left the church.