The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

“Mariquita!  Thou good-for-nothing, thou art wringing that smock in pieces!  Thy señora will beat thee!  Holy heaven, but it is hot!”

“For that reason I hurry, old Faquita.  Were I as slow as thou, I should cook in my own tallow.”

“Aha, thou art very clever!  But I have no wish to go back to the rancho and wash for the cooks.  Ay, yi!  I wonder will La Tulita ever give me her bridal clothes to wash.  I have no faith that little flirt will marry the Señor Don Ramon Garcia.  He did not well to leave Monterey until after the wedding.  And to think—­Ay! yi!”

“Thou hast a big letter for the wash-tub mail, Faquita.”

“Aha, my Francesca, thou hast interest!  I thought thou wast thinking only of the bandits.”

Francesca, who was holding a plunging child between her knees, actively inspecting its head, grunted but did not look up, and the oracle of the wash-tubs, provokingly, with slow movements of her knotted coffee-coloured arms, flapped a dainty skirt, half-covered with drawn work, before she condescended to speak further.

Twenty women or more, young and old, dark as pine cones, stooped or sat, knelt or stood, about deep stone tubs sunken in the ground at the foot of a hill on the outskirts of Monterey.  The pines cast heavy shadows on the long slope above them, but the sun was overhead.  The little white town looked lifeless under its baking red tiles, at this hour of siesta.  On the blue bay rode a warship flying the American colours.  The atmosphere was so clear, the view so uninterrupted, that the younger women fancied they could read the name on the prow:  the town was on the right; between the bay and the tubs lay only the meadow, the road, the lake, and the marsh.  A few yards farther down the road rose a hill where white slabs and crosses gleamed beneath the trees.  The roar of the surf came refreshingly to their hot ears.  It leaped angrily, they fancied, to the old fort on the hill where men in the uniform of the United States moved about with unsleeping vigilance.  It was the year 1847.  The Americans had come and conquered.  War was over, but the invaders guarded their new possessions.

The women about the tubs still bitterly protested against the downfall of California, still took an absorbing interest in all matters, domestic, social, and political.  For those old women with grizzled locks escaping from a cotton handkerchief wound bandwise about their heads, their ample forms untrammelled by the flowing garment of calico, those girls in bright skirts and white short-sleeved smock and young hair braided, knew all the news of the country, past and to come, many hours in advance of the dons and doñas whose linen they washed in the great stone tubs:  the Indians, domestic and roving, were their faithful friends.

“Sainted Mary, but thou art more slow than a gentleman that walks!” cried Mariquita, an impatient-looking girl.  “Read us the letter.  La Tulita is the prettiest girl in Monterey now that the Señorita Ysabel Herrera lies beneath the rocks, and Benicia Ortega has died of her childing.  But she is a flirt—­that Tulita!  Four of the Gringos are under her little slipper this year, and she turn over the face and roll in the dirt.  But Don Ramon, so handsome, so rich—­surely she will marry him.”

Faquita shook her head slowly and wisely.  “There—­come —­yesterday—­from—­the—­South—­a—­young—­lieutenant—­of—­America.”  She paused a moment, then proceeded leisurely, though less provokingly.  “He come over the great American deserts with General Kearney last year and help our men to eat the dust in San Diego.  He come only yesterday to Monterey, and La Tulita is like a little wild-cat ever since.  She box my ears this morning when I tell her that the Americans are bandoleros, and say she never marry a Californian.  And never Don Ramon Garcia, ay, yi!”

By this time the fine linen was floating at will upon the water, or lying in great heaps at the bottom of the clear pools.  The suffering child scampered up through the pines with whoops of delight.  The washing-women were pressed close about Faquita, who stood with thumbs on her broad hips, the fingers contracting and snapping as she spoke, wisps of hair bobbing back and forth about her shrewd black eyes and scolding mouth.

“Who is he?  Where she meet him?” cried the audience.  “Oh, thou old carreta!  Why canst thou not talk faster?”

“If thou hast not more respect, Señorita Mariquita, thou wilt hear nothing.  But it is this.  There is a ball last night at Doña Maria Ampudia’s house for La Tulita.  She look handsome, that witch!  Holy Mary!  When she walk it was like the tule in the river.  You know.  Why she have that name?  She wear white, of course, but that frock—­it is like the cobweb, the cloud.  She has not the braids like the other girls, but the hair, soft like black feathers, fall down to the feet.  And the eyes like blue stars!  You know the eyes of La Tulita.  The lashes so long, and black like the hair.  And the sparkle!  No eyes ever sparkle like those.  The eyes of Ysabel Herrera look like they want the world and never can get it.  Benicia’s, pobrecita, just dance like the child’s.  But La Tulita’s!  They sparkle like the devil sit behind and strike fire out red-hot iron—­”

“Mother of God!” cried Mariquita, impatiently, “we all know thou art daft about that witch!  And we know how she looks.  Tell us the story.”

“Hush thy voice or thou wilt hear nothing.  It is this way.  La Tulita have the castanets and just float up and down the sala, while all stand back and no breathe only when they shout.  I am in the garden in the middle the house, and I stand on a box and look through the doors.  Ay, the roses and the nasturtiums smell so sweet in that little garden!  Well!  She dance so beautiful, I think the roof go to jump off so she can float up and live on one the gold stars all by herself.  Her little feet just twinkle!  Well!  The door open and Lieutenant Ord come in.  He have with him another young man, not so handsome, but so straight, so sharp eye and tight mouth.  He look at La Tulita like he think she belong to America and is for him.  Lieutenant Ord go up to Doña Maria and say, so polite:  ’I take the liberty to bring Lieutenant’—­I no can remember that name, so American!  ’He come to-day from San Diego and will stay with us for a while.’  And Doña Maria, she smile and say, very sweet, ’Very glad when I have met all of our conquerors.’  And he turn red and speak very bad Spanish and look, look, at La Tulita.  Then Lieutenant Ord speak to him in English and he nod the head, and Lieutenant Ord tell Doña Maria that his friend like be introduced to La Tulita, and she say, ’Very well,’ and take him over to her who is now sit down.  He ask her to waltz right away, and he waltz very well, and then they dance again, and once more.  And then they sit down and talk, talk.  God of my soul, but the caballeros are mad!  And Doña Maria!  By and by she can stand it no more and she go up to La Tulita and take away from the American and say, ’Do you forget—­and for a bandolero—­that you are engage to my nephew?’ And La Tulita toss the head and say:  ’How can I remember Ramon Garcia when he is in Yerba Buena?  I forget he is alive.’  And Doña Maria is very angry.  The eyes snap.  But just then the little sister of La Tulita run into the sala, the face red like the American flag.  ‘Ay, Herminia!’ she just gasp.  ‘The donas!  The donas!  It has come!’”

“The donas!” cried the washing-women, old and young.  “Didst thou see it, Faquita?  Oh, surely.  Tell us, what did he send?  Is he a generous bridegroom?  Were there jewels?  And satins?  Of what was the rosary?”

“Hush the voice or you will hear nothing.  The girls all jump and clap their hands and they cry:  ’Come, Herminia.  Come quick!  Let us go and see.’  Only La Tulita hold the head very high and look like the donas is nothing to her, and the Lieutenant look very surprise, and she talk to him very fast like she no want him to know what they mean.  But the girls just take her hands and pull her out the house.  I am after.  La Tulita look very mad, but she cannot help, and in five minutes we are at the Casa Rivera, and the girls scream and clap the hands in the sala for Doña Carmen she have unpack the donas and the beautiful things are on the tables and the sofas and the chairs, Mother of God!”

“Go on!  Go on!” cried a dozen exasperated voices.

“Well!  Such a donas.  Ay, he is a generous lover.  A yellow crepe shawl embroidered with red roses.  A white one with embroidery so thick it can stand up.  A string of pearls from Baja California. (Ay, poor Ysabel Herrera!) Hoops of gold for the little ears of La Tulita.  A big chain of California gold.  A set of topaz with pearls all round.  A rosary of amethyst—­purple like the violets.  A big pin painted with the Ascension, and diamonds all round.  Silks and satins for gowns.  A white lace mantilla, Dios de mi alma!  A black one for the visits.  And the night-gowns like cobwebs.  The petticoats!” She stopped abruptly.

“And the smocks?” cried her listeners, excitedly.  “The smocks?  They are more beautiful than Blandina’s?  They were pack in rose-leaves—­”

“Ay! yi! yi! yi!” The old woman dropped her head on her breast and waved her arms.  She was a study for despair.  Even she did not suspect how thoroughly she was enjoying herself.

“What!  What!  Tell us!  Quick, thou old snail.  They were not fine?  They had not embroidery?”

“Hush the voices.  I tell you when I am ready.  The girls are like crazy.  They look like they go to eat the things.  Only La Tulita sit on the chair in the door with her back to all and look at the windows of Doña Maria.  They look like a long row of suns, those windows.

“I am the one.  Suddenly I say:  ‘Where are the smocks?’ And they all cry:  ’Yes, where are the smocks?  Let us see if he will be a good husband.  Doña Carmen, where are the smocks?’

“Doña Carmen turn over everything in a hurry.  ’I did not think of the smocks,’ she say.  ’But they must be here.  Everything was unpack in this room.’  She lift all up, piece by piece.  The girls help and so do I. La Tulita sit still but begin to look more interested.  We search everywhere—­everywhere—­for twenty minutes.  There—­are—­no—­smocks!”

“God of my life!  The smocks!  He did not forget!”

“He forget the smocks!”

There was an impressive pause.  The women were too dumfounded to comment.  Never in the history of Monterey had such a thing happened before.

Faquita continued:  “The girls sit down on the floor and cry.  Doña Carmen turn very white and go in the other room.  Then La Tulita jump up and walk across the room.  The lashes fall down over the eyes that look like she is California and have conquer America, not the other way.  The nostrils just jump.  She laugh, laugh, laugh.  ‘So!’ she say, ’my rich and generous and ardent bridegroom, he forget the smocks of the donas.  He proclaim as if by a poster on the streets that he will be a bad husband, a thoughtless, careless, indifferent husband.  He has vow by the stars that he adore me.  He has serenade beneath my window until I have beg for mercy.  He persecute my mother.  And now he flings the insult of insults in my teeth.  And he with six married sisters!’

“The girls just sob.  They can say nothing.  No woman forgive that.  Then she say loud, ‘Ana,’ and the girl run in.  ‘Ana,’ she say, ’pack this stuff and tell José and Marcos take it up to the house of the Señor Don Ramon Garcia.  I have no use for it.’  Then she say to me:  ’Faquita, walk back to Doña Maria’s with me, no?  I have engagement with the American.’  And I go with her, of course; I think I go jump in the bay if she tell me; and she dance all night with that American.  He no look at another girl—­all have the eyes so red, anyhow.  And Doña Maria is crazy that her nephew do such a thing, and La Tulita no go to marry him now.  Ay, that witch!  She have the excuse and she take it.”

For a few moments the din was so great that the crows in a neighbouring grove of willows sped away in fear.  The women talked all at once, at the top of their voices and with no falling inflections.  So rich an assortment of expletives, secular and religious, such individuality yet sympathy of comment, had not been called upon for duty since the seventh of July, a year before, when Commodore Sloat had run up the American flag on the Custom-house.  Finally they paused to recover breath.  Mariquita’s young lungs being the first to refill, she demanded of Faquita:—­

“And Don Ramon—­when does he return?”

“In two weeks, no sooner.”