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An Afternoon around Monterey
With Those Who Remember
ALTHOUGH it la still possible to
if jl hear the tinkle of a guitar In
j \ ..mldmornlng 1, when all true
.Americans aro' hard at work,
r-!;:'tUrqujth a window, deep set In an
r <■>,;-,? wall, to catch glimpses of solemn,
biackcyrd babied that return your rude
j>Uiro with Spanish courtesy, the old
f-.n--« have gone, even In the hidden
corners, and the old spirit has gone and
er.ly a few of the old people arc left
to rer.:c;nbor, to wait and to watch the
c:rol« grow smaller. Not a dozen be
tween the two missions of Monterey
end Carmel to recall the days when
I California belonged to Spain. In real
ity strangers in their own land, they
■wait patiently for the end. neither anx
ious to go, nor wishing back the past;
gricd of an interested listener, con
test without one; gentle, patient, they
Oldest of all is The Old Indian, close
on 105, "a little more, a little less, I
dc rot remember exactly, senorita, but
I was a young man when I came with
.rreny others from Mexico, and many
died for want of water and food on the
way. I was young then. Since I have
seen hundreds of people die—grand
fathers and fathers and sons; but I do
not die. Perhaps I shall live always."
He gives a cracked little laugh as ho
rolls a fresh cigarette. "May be if I
have these, and sometimes a little wine.
Without tobacco I die tomorrow." But
as long as "the governor" of Monterey
continues to give him $5 a month he
will have his tobacco and sometimes
his little wine. It is quite impossible
to try to discover who this generous
person la. whether the mayor, or the
police captain or a private agent. He
hands out. gold, therefore he is the'
Superior to time and change, he ac
cepts only such innovations as lie can
not escape. To him San Krancisco does
not exist. He has heard of it, but lie
has never been there. It' is not. Los
Angeles Is a beautiful town with adobe
houses and dark eyed girls, where only
Spanish is heard, where guitars tinkle
all day in the warm, clear air and
where at night one drinks and dances
'and Is young. In all California there
; re 'only theSe, the mythical San Fran
' Cisco, the real Los Angeles. Monterey,
'very different now, senorita, ay, all
changed," »nd Carmel, not the literary
Carmel.'northe temperance Carmel, but
thVCsrmel of the valley running back
into the mountains, with Its scattered
ranches and stray descendants of "the
old days." When the sun shines he
goes out into the pine about the little,
whitewashed shack where he lives and
gathers firewood, not useless twigs, but
real branches; or else he minds the
latest baby of the family with whom he
has been for more tl?un 50 years. Again
no one remembers exactly how long, but
the grandmother herself says: "I have
•i»vti- known the house without him."
When these peaceful occupations' get
too monotonous, without saying a word
"el viejo" puts on his soft, black sora
orero and his long, black coat, If It Is
fine, or the stained and frayed overcoat
that keeps out the drifting fog, takes
his heavy cane and .'disappears for a
walk of ii or 12 miles. If he comes
back with a string of fish they know he
has been down to the mouth of the
Carmel with an old crony of 90. whom
lie regards as a mere youth. If he
comes back a little more jovial, a little
more reminiscent than usual;eV. ' has
been to Monterey. No one iV -if
-.-- <..-rv lneV|iboii l t >i)m. a!t)«TU'
the hills and never come back. But up
to the present he has always come back,
cheerful and happy, unless some well
intentioned person has insisted on giv
ing him a lift fiver the steep grades.
Then he is a lit'!-- cross, for his bones
ache with the jolting. Only fools who
wish to die should ride. It is a bad
thing, a very bad thing.
When he comes in fresh from his
eight mile, walk to Monterey and back,
plus the diversions in' the town, "so
changed, senorita," but ■ still capable
evidently of killing, a few hours, it is
not at all difficult to believe the little
walking trips he took when he was
young. To begin with, he walked Into
California from Mexico, and is honest
ly surprised that one would ever ..think
of corning in any other way. Ogee
here, he heard that there was gold in
the. north, so off he /walked north to
get It. Time is a modern Invention and
exact direction a. detail " for small
minds. He went after gold and he got
a lot of It, 'in little lumps, enough to
cover the bottom of a trunk." Shoul
dering his gold, he started to walk and
after a time he reached Stanislaus. But
he did not like it. He contrasted it
with Los Angeles—and started to walk
again. In due time he arrived' with the"
"lumps of gold" and a great yearning
for amusement; also a great ignorance
or a beautiful faith—because he "says'
he was not drunk— in his fellow crea
tures. Realizing the dangers of carry
ing about so much "gold, he intrusted
it to "a friend" whom he met on the
street. She was a young friend and a
pretty friend, so he did not ask her her
name or where she lived. "Ola," he,
says, "there was' much gold."
-Still, even minus the' "little lumps,"
he was ; not thou attractions, for he
could ride against the greatest vaqueros
of the day and sing and dance in a way
that made even the Spanish girls smile
their -approNiti in a manner that brings
a twinkle to the/ little •' bright eyes,
laughing remini^cently through the
cigarette sniokfe". As f r the Indian
sirls, there is o.ily or^i^at has passed
"jv •■-i»r^ lifst'nry . . filter of [a.
3 '>e w,. V" " 80 UK>j that
SO years after she Is remembered with
a shudder. Nothing 1 could nave per
suaded him to marry her, not even if
he had been threatened with death. As
it was, hp was surprised one night by
the angry mother of the girl and
■ 1 with a kettle of boiling water,
which raised blisters the size- of apples
all over his- back and shoulders,' but:
escaped his face. This so infuriated
"my mother in law," as he describes
her with the wickedest of little
chuckles, that she had him pursued for
miles into the hills, and he only got
away at all because of his wonderful
riding. - ' -■
An hour in the past, and even with
out the "little wine" that brings back
those days so vividly, soft Spanish love
songs and \ weird Aztec chants come in
stamp and he is no longer. 105. Then
he sings '. his voice grows stronger, his
body begins to sway and when he comes
to the scalp dance,. sung by Apache
warriors as they,whirled about the ; fire,
the scalps held high in triumph, his
voice : grows ■ strong and his - old feet
stamp and he is no longer 104.- Then
suddenly he . forgets. He shakes his
head sadly but the notes are dead.- "The
head is not so clear as It was once,
Senorita. They come best when I am
walking outside alone." .
So If ever you see him in his long
black; coat" and his best black som
,brero, ,bent on his <stick -walking' over
the hill from Carmel to Monterey, just
drop into step beside him and if you
can , speak* any 'Spanish at' all he will
gladly take you back 70 or 80 years to
• the^days. when "all 5 was different, muyv
jnuy dlfferente"—and much better.
A3 far away from The Old Indian as
1 gentle; highbred aristocrat of old
Spain ' could be. is a delicate '■ palefaced
old lady of : 88 who, 1, speaking not "-*■'
word *of <■ English • and ?■ with .very; few
old friends left, finds enough in ; lire to
make her wait •; cheerfully .until' it .is
the will ' of the - good God to I take; her.'
There is' such a lot yet to do in lite, to
remember, to go : to mass and see one's
friends. What more; could one want ;to
he happy? " Surely not to rush about as
these Americans ] do, ' "Dies mio, from
one place to another, like lightning.,
For what? Looking '■ for *' Joy "^ as "If? it
were something 1 one could find growing
on bush." In tli » old days women
were'wiser.' They made'themselve&';-*«
beautiful ,as' the saints pern ■>•*
waited for the love and the bal'
the home which 'the Scheme of ■
Intended they should.have.
"But, senora,, suppose that -Id'
babies, anil*; home" ar«n't-aH' ,
want any more?"
"Ay. ay. arc you all mad then? "What
is it you want."
"Why, work and fame and success—"
"May God have mercy." And the little
figure of the old lady shrinks as she
draws the black mantilla closer, as if
a real blast had struck her. "Thank
God 1 am 88."
the senora would nnt go back,
has only one regret—just a
of a regret—that she did not
tends die and with thf>
>■> not talk. No, I
husband was an American. . But ;such
; beautiful Spanish he [spoke, even like
my father, who } wag not Hke these : In- ■
dians :' m of :• Mexico but »a! Catalonian of.'«
old - Spain, of; the i same race las ; Padre •
Junipero Serra and all ; the ' good priests :
who ■ came with him." •
The : senoraCwas 'a little girl" when :
,she\" came to "! Monterey, she: has
; neypv t left it.' Not even . when; she was,
lottnlfidld'Bhe'have the "least wish to
Isenora was a little she when
ime to Monterey, and she has
left it. Not even when she was
did she have, the least wish to
ibout. In later years she hear'
qf,J San J Francisco, t and often her trie'
American husband said:—"Concept
lct.ua I*. It i Sa .*iT«*crty*iiil w^
flnfl_uiuch amu 1. *?* "• '*' '" ~ r '■ ><•»
would not. I a* sure that then, as now.
she shrugged ijer aristocratic shoulders
and 1 with the lame unanswerable ges
■ ture of th- delicate' hands said.
"Porque?" Ail equally sure I am that
her husband fund no more reason tbau -
di! I,when: sr/put the gentle rPoTqitsTl
to we. ;./ ' /
"' T re wen not many people, jEF
titie, outfld'! of the ; Presidio of Jk^'n-v
tirny, but jnough...., "Oh, plcnty.V|We ;
jxeefs all if one people,; like a fanlhV?
'M soliaprf-" There were balls attthtr
-»* rancies, and; the Presidl<aHH|
•hlefwell of,diversion, 1 \wa«iih»
f yen when there were a« far
)-•*■ ' __ - . 1 .1 ! ' .
11 San Francisco * **%.
WHERE ONe fcA.N j
STILL HEAR A GUITAR I
IN THE MORNING- V*
■ '■■■'-' ■■•■■■■' i
eign ships in the harbor it was enough "
unto Itself. And when ships ->f >ther
nations . dropped . anchor in the 1 iay—r
"Ay, ay, senorlta. no longer art , the
young girls' happy as then. Engl (sh?":
She laughs ever s.o softly ;to .he rself.
"One does not dance with,,the to igur,
nenorita. No, it is only now, that 3^ am
old, that I n«ed your language. fh^n
it made no 'difference.",. Nat vfher or J e>
has eyes<like: the^enora'B and h\--.,1s
that talk—doticate, votc«l<!s« hands that s
speaVw'..-' "', ' _.^'"^^"^ rr "i
A"Jiion<«'s throw from the,trim white
cottagewhere Donna Conception, with
her .single serving maid, sits waiting
for the end,"neither looking forward
with dismay nor backward with regret,
lives Donna Kulalia. a stranger to
Donna Concepeion. For Eulalia is not;
of Catalonia, nor of old Spain at all,
not even of Mexico, but of Monterey.?
and not only of Monterey, but ti:e house
where she and her brother now live Is;
not a dozen feet from the adob© wlier." I
they were both born. Crumbling bits °* ;
it still cumber the front yard of the
hideous wooden cottage, of which Ra
fael and Eulalia are so proud. No, she
does not know Donna Concepcion. She
nhrugs her fat shoulders and her broad,
• brown face shows no Interest whatever.
Perhaps long years ago Donna IT .alia,
used to wash, for the rich American'
doctor and his Spanish wife, but Eula
lia has washed for so many people In
the: course of her IS years, and her
twin, Rafael, has cut so many cords of
wood that they can not recall all of .
their patrons. Now they live alone to
gether, enough laid by so that they
need not worry, and an army of rela
tives to make things lively if the days
get" too lonesome. As the old twins
were only two of a family of 24, all of
whom grew up and most of whom mar
ried and had children of their own, the
greats and the great-greats that refer
to Eulalia as "tin" are "Dios mi"," says
Eulalia, "they are like flies."
Neither Eulalia nor Rafael has ever
married. Rafael's reasons' I do not
know, but Eulalia, rocking slowly in
her comfortable chair, discussed the
matter quite freely.
"Husbands?" said Eulalia and shrugged .
the Spanish equivalent for "not in,
mine." "A husband? What for? A
Spanish husband to say so, in this way
shall you do,' and this and this and,
this? An American to get drunk a-*
run off with another woman? Is-It
t that I should marry?"
"But all Spanish- husbands" are )
such bosses, and*-- , "
"Did you^tnarrji with one?" if°man
Eulalia. / .\ -~~-» ■
"No. But-^—" "*■■-? '
"Ola." .remarked Eulalia, "then s
would be well not to talk."
"You were never engaged, then
"Ah," murmured Eulalia. "that is very
different. The sweethearts are another
thing. Dances, serenades, that is well,
but — and Eulalia suddenly leaned tor
ward in her chair, and. crooking her
arms, rocked gently from side to s'.ae.
crying in the shrill, screaming tones of
■ a tiny, baby, "Ya-ya-y-aa. No, that I
do not like."
So at To Eulalia does as she plea »»s.
In the summer she gets up at; 4 and in
the winter at 6. and if she fee!? like It
she feeds the,chickens In the middle of
the afternoon: and goes to bed. Sh ■■> is
never sick a day, because, as she s '"-(■•>•■
"I have the good sense. I never vi 'it
underclothes in my life and I eat .4.
much meat. I wash no longer/not rV
cause: I could not do it, but there Is no
longer the need. One works to live;
when one can live without, why work?" ,'
Another bit of Spanish philosophy im- /
possible to answer. "It is this hurry
up, always hurry up, that makes tha'»
Americana old," explains Eulalia "In "i
the old days," (he waves; a browr J
scarred hand toward the busy g,tr-- '
"*hen all this was a field, o
how to live. There was wo
of work, but one took f
washed, but not rub, rub, rui
We took the cloth »nd we*" •,
there to the river, manjl' ,■
young women, and we vVa3l
while we washed wo talk
laughed, 1 and before the finish
whs gone. Now—ay," laments
"it Is very-bad for the health/
for the clothes*"
■ If Eulalia no longer washes*
sings, and I believe with onou
suasion would dance, although I
Clares that the latter sho gave uj.
years ago, even before the wai.i,,.g.
Unlike The Old Indian, her memory is p
clear and she goes from one to another
of. the songs with which she probably
led on the unfortunate sweethearts
more than half a century ago. - There
are haunting Spanish lov« songs and
bits of Indian chants picked up whet
she was a child from her mother. For
although Eulalia's mother waa a Mcxl- f
W.w.■,..,-.. i ...■-. - ,f
can, she could talk to the Indlai
their own tongue and remembered a**
ries rom: the days of her own gi ' r ' i
mother, -when i the \ latter trotted a AT,'
;with the older ; women, carrying n/r
• tiny apron .full of stones for the buiju
;lug, apron mission. stones for the I•j ~ i
of the mission. Throug
j<Jßly*H. few scraps of song 1 us (,>
to Kulalia.(but she*;loves tort r\
and never refuses after • t!>
amount -of i hositation, tn
from,one who was kn^.vp'
Ing when/all/this ,tv="'
ay,|and better," -to"'
practical,:' agrees t
i>asi has ijoMe ' I