I went upstairs and found Chonita reading Landor's "Imaginary
Conversations." (When Chonita was eighteen,--she was now
twenty-four--Don Alfredo Robinson, one of the American residents,
had at her father's request sent to Boston for a library of several
hundred books, a birthday gift for the ambitious daughter of the
Iturbi y Moncadas. The selection was an admirable one, and a rancho
would not have pleased her as well. She read English and French with
ease, although she spoke both languages brokenly.) As I entered she
laid down the book and clasped her hands behind her head. She looked
tranquil, but less amiable than was her wont.
"Thou hast been far away from the caballeros and the doñas of
Monterey," I said.
"Not even among Spanish ghosts."
"I think thou carest at heart for nothing but thy books."
"And a few people, and my religion."
"But they come second, although thou wilt not acknowledge it even to
thyself. Suppose thou hadst to sacrifice thy religion or thy books,
never to read another? Which wouldst thou choose?"
"God of my soul! what a question! No Spanish woman was ever a truer
Catholic; but to read is my happiness, the only happiness I want on
earth."
"Art thou sure that to train the intellect means happiness?"
"Sure. Does it not give us the power to abstract ourselves from life
when we are tired of it?"
"True, but there is another result you have not thought of. The more
the intellect is developed, the more acute and aggressive is the
nervous system; the more tenacious is the memory, the more has one to
live with, and the higher the ideals. When the time comes for you to
live you will suffer with double the intensity and depth of the woman
whose nerves are dull or stunted."
"To suffer you must love, and I never shall love. Who is there to
love? Books always suffice me, and I suppose there are enough in the
world to make the time pass as long as I live."
I did not continue the argument, knowing the placid superiority of
inexperience.
"But thou hast not yet told me which thou wouldst give up."
"The books, of course. I hope I know my duty. I would sacrifice all
things to my religion. But the priests do not interfere now as they
did in the last generation."
I was very religious in those days, and my heart beat with approval.
"I have always said that the Church may let women read what they
choose. The good principles they are born with they will adhere to."
"We are by nature conservatives, that is all. And we have need of
religion. We must have something to lean on, and men are poor props,
as far as I have observed. Sometimes after having read a long while in
an absorbing book, particularly one that seemed to put something with
a living hand into my brain and make it feel larger, I find that I am
miles away from the Church; I have forgotten its existence. I always
_run_ back."
"_Dios!_ I should think so. Yes, it is well we do need our religion.
Men do not; for that reason they drop it the moment the wings on their
minds grow fast--as they would, when the warm sun came out, drop the
thick blanket of the Indian, borrowed and gratefully worn in dark
uncertain weather. I do not dare ask Diego Estenega what he believes,
lest he tell me he believes nothing and I should have to hear it. How
dost thou like my friend, Chonita?"
"Art thou asking me how I like the enemy of my house? I hate him."
"If he goes to Santa Barbara with Alvarado this summer wilt thou ask
him to be thy guest?"
"Of course. The enmity has always been veiled with much courtesy; and
I would have him see that we know how to entertain."
I watched her covertly; I could detect no sign of interest. Presently
she took up the volume of Landor and read aloud to me, the stately
English sounding oddly with her Spanish accent.