The Doomswoman | Page 6

soliloquy.
She had kicked alarmingly when the salt was laid on her tongue, and
squalled under the deluge of water which gave her her name and also

wet Chonita's sleeve. The godmother longed for the ceremony to be
over; but it was more protracted than usual, owing to the importance of
the restless object on the pillow in her weary arms. When the last word
was said, she handed pillow and baby to the nurse with a fervent sigh
of relief which made her appear girlish and natural.
After Estenega had lifted her to her horse he dried her sleeve with his
handkerchief. He lingered over the task; the cavalcade and populace
went on without them, and when they started they were in the rearward
of the blithesome crowd.
"Do you know what I thought as I stood by you in the church?" he
asked.
"No," she said, indifferently. "I hope you prayed for the fortune of the
little one."
"I did not; nor did you. You were too afraid you would drop it. I was
thinking how unmotherly, I had almost said unwomanly, you looked.
You were made for the great world,--the restless world, where people
fly faster from monotony than from a tidal wave."
She looked at him with cold dignity, but flushed a little. "I am not
unwomanly, señor, although I confess I do not understand babies and
do detest to sew. But if I ever marry I shall be a good wife and mother.
No Spanish woman was ever otherwise, for every Spanish woman has
had a good mother for example."
"You have said exactly what you should have said, voicing the inborn
principles and sentiments of the Spanish woman. I should be interested
to know what your individual sentiments are. But you misunderstand
me. I said that you were too good for the average lot of woman. You
are a woman, not a doll; an intelligence, not a bundle of shallow
emotions and transient desires. You should have a larger destiny."
She gave him a swift sidelong flash from eyes that suddenly looked
childish and eager.

"It is true," she said, frankly, "I have no desire to marry and have many
children. My father has never said to me, 'Thou must marry;' and I have
sometimes thought I would say 'No' when that time came. For the
present I am contented with my books and to ride about the country on
a wild horse; but perhaps--I do not know--I may not always be
contented with that. Sometimes when reading Shakespeare I have
imagined myself each of those women in turn. But generally, of course,
I have thought little of being any one but myself. What else could I be
here?"
"Nothing; excepting a Joan of Arc when the Americans sweep down
upon us. But that would be only for a day; we should be such easy prey.
If I could put you to sleep and awaken you fifty years hence, when
California was a modern civilization! God speed the Americans:
Therein lies our only chance."
"What!" she cried. "You--you would have the Americans? You--a
Californian! But you are an Estenega; that explains everything."
"I am a Californian," he said, ignoring the scorn of the last words, "but
I hope I have acquired some common-sense in roving about the world.
The women of California are admirable in every way,--chaste, strong of
character, industrious, devoted wives and mothers, born with sufficient
capacity for small pleasures. But what are our men? Idle, thriftless,
unambitious, too lazy to walk across the street, but with a horse for
every step, sleeping all day in a hammock, gambling and drinking all
night. They are the natural followers of a race of men who came here to
force fortune out of an unbroken country with little to help them but
brains and will. The great effort produced great results; therefore there
is nothing for their sons to do, and they luxuriously do nothing. What
will the next generation be? Our women will marry
Americans,--respect for men who are men will overcome
prejudice,--the crossed blood will fight for a generation or two, then a
race will be born worthy of California. Why are our few great men so
very great to us? What have men of exceptional talent to fight down in
the Californias except the barriers to its development? In England or
the United States they still would be great men,--Alvarado and Castro,

at least,--but they would have to work harder."
Chonita, in spite of her disapproval and her blood, looked at him with
interest. His ideas and language were strikingly unlike the sentimental
rhetoric of the caballeros.
"It is as you say," she admitted; "but the Californian's highest duty is
loyalty to his country. Ours is a double duty, isolated as we are on