The Penance of Magdalena and Other Tales of the California MissionsChase, J. Smeaton (Joseph Smeaton)
Religion
The Penance of Magdalena and Other Tales of the California Missions
Chase, J. Smeaton (Joseph Smeaton)
Missions -- California -- Fiction
The talking ceased abruptly, and with it the music of knife and fork on
crockery. I knocked and called again, "Buenas noches!" A chair moved,
and a man's voice said, "Abajo, perro!" whereupon the bark was exchanged
for an equally uncomfortable growling. Then the door was thrown open,
and a man, standing in the doorway, asked in Spanish, "Who is there?" In
a few words I explained my presence, adding that I was short of food and
should be glad to purchase a little. "Enter, senor," he invited, and, as
I did so, "Carlota," he said to one of two well-grown girls who sat by
the woman, "Carlota, give your seat to the caballero." The woman had
risen already, and in a matter-of-fact way was putting a plate and cup,
evidently for me. My first impulse was to explain that I had had my
supper; but I have always found frank acceptance to be the best reply to
the frank hospitality of these courteous people, and with an expression
of thanks I took the offered place and was ready to share their meal.
I now had an opportunity to notice my entertainers. The man was a
strongly built, good-looking, middle-aged Mexican; the wife (as I
took her to be) placid-looking, kindly-featured, and of the national
middle-aged stoutness. The two children were slender, attractive girls,
verging on the early womanhood of their race. I think they were twins.
This, I supposed, comprised the household, until, my glance following
the wife as she went to the stove, I saw another person. A man,
apparently deformed, sat by the fire, bent forward, his hands resting
on a stick. But doubled over as he was, his eyes, black and piercing,
followed every movement made by any of us. My host, by whom I sat, said
in a low voice, "He is my brother, senor: he is very ill." I was on
the point of making some remark of condolence when he added, "He cannot
speak, senor: he is dumb." Feeling that it would be best not to refer
to the matter, and to turn the conversation, I inquired as to the road
I had missed, and whether I could get through to the coast without
returning. This I learned I could do, my host promising to put me in the
way in the morning.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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