Once you had seen it peeping forth8 from under the black skirt—have not Castilian ladies worn black immemorially?—you did not require the assurance of Tio Juan that there was no one in her day could have danced la jota with Dona Ina Manuelita.
She would clack the castanets for you occasionally still, just to show how it was done, or with the guitar resting on the arm of her chair—laps were no more to be thought of than waists were—she would quaver a song, La Golindrina for choice, or La Noche esta Serena. But unquestionably Dona Ina's time had gone by for shining at anything but conversation. She could talk, and never so fruitfully as when the subject was her garden.
A Spanish garden is a very intimate affair. It is the innermost under-garment of the family life. Dona Ina's was walled away from the world by six feet of adobe4, around the top of which still lingered the curved red tiles of Mission manufacture. It was not spoken of as the garden at all, it was the patio, an integral part of the dwelling9. There was, in fact, a raw hide cot on the long gallery which gave access to it, and Dona Ina's drawn10-work chemises bleaching11 in the sun. The patio is a gift to us from Andalusia; [89] it is more Greek than Oriental, and the English porch has about as much relation to it as the buttons on the back of a man's coat to the sword-belt they were once supposed to accommodate. The patio is the original mud-walled enclosure of a people who preferred living in the open but were driven to protection; the rooms about three sides of it were an afterthought.
The Echivarra patio did not lack the indispensable features of the early California establishment, the raised grill13 or cooking platform, and the ramada, the long vine-covered trellis where one took wine with one's friends, or the ladies of the family sat sewing at their interminable drawn work, enramada. The single vine which covered the twenty-foot trellis was of Mission stock, and had been planted by Dona Ina's father in the year the Pathfinder came over Tejon Pass into the great twin valleys. In Dona Ina's childhood a wine-press had stood in the corner of the patio where now there was a row of artichokes, which had been allowed to seed in order that their stiff silken tassels14, dyed blue and crimson15, might adorn16 the pair of china vases on either side the high altar. Dona Ina was nothing if not religious. In the corner of the patio farthest from the gallery, a fig17-tree—this [90] also is indispensable—hung over the tiled wall like a cloud. There was a weeping willow18 in the midst of the garden, and just outside, on either side the door, two great pepper trees of the very stock of the parent of all pepper trees in Alta California, which a sea captain from South America gave to the Padre at San Luis Rey. Along the east wall there were pomegranates.
A pomegranate is the one thing that makes me understand what a pretty woman is to some men—the kind of prettiness that was Dona Ina's in the days when she danced la jota. The flower of the pomegranate has the crumpled19 scarlet20 of lips that find their excuse in simply being scarlet and folded like the petals21 of a flower; and then the fruit, warm from the sunny wall, faintly odorous, dusky flushed! It is so tempting22 when broken open—that sort opens of its own accord if you leave it long enough on the bush—the rich heart colour, and the pleasant uncloying, sweet, sub-acid taste. One tastes and tastes—but when all is said and done there is nothing to a pomegranate except colour and flavour, and at least if it does not nourish neither does it give you indigestion. That is what suggests the comparison; there are so many people who would like to find a pretty woman [91] in the same category. Always when we sat together nibbling23 the rosy24 seeds, I could believe, even without the evidence of the ankles, that Dona Ina had had her pomegranate days. Only, of course, she would not have smelled so of musk25 and—there is no denying it—of garlic. Thick-walled old adobes of the period of the Spanish Occupation give off a faint reek12 of this compelling condiment26 at every pore, and as for the musk, it was always about the gallery in saucers and broken flower-pots.
And yet Dona Ina was sensitive to odours: she told me that she had had the datura moved from the place where her mother had planted it, to the far end of the patio, where after nightfall its heavy, slightly fetid perfume, unnoticeable by day, scented27 all the air. She added that she felt convicted by this aversion of a want of sentiment toward a plant whose wide, papery-white bells went by the name of "Angels' trumpets28."
On the day that she told me about the datura, which I had only recognised by its resemblance to its offensive wayside congener, the "jimson weed," the Señora Echivarra had been washing her hair with a tonic29 made of oil expressed from the seeds of the megharizza after a recipe which [92] her mother had had from her mother, who had it from an Indian who used to peddle30 vegetables from the Mission, driving in every Saturday in an ancient caretta. I was interested to know if it were any more efficacious than the young shoots of the golden poppy fried in olive oil, which I had already tried. So we fell to talking of the virtues31 of plants and their application.
We began with the blessed "herb of the saints," dried bunches of which hung up under the rafters of the gallery as an unfailing resort in affections of the respiratory tract33, and yerba buena, in which she was careful to distinguish between the creeping, aromatic34 del campo of the woodlands and the yerba buena del poso, "herb of the well," the common mint of damp places. When she added that the buckskin bag on the wall contained shavings of cascara sagrada, the sacred bark of the native buckthorn, indispensable to all nurseries, I knew that she had named two of the three most important contributions of the west to the modern pharmacopœia. This particular bag of bark had been sent from Sonoma County, for south of Monterey it grows too thin to be worth the gathering35. The Grindelia, she told me, had come from the salt marshes36 about the mouth of the [93] Pajaro, where Don Gaspar de Portola must have crossed going northward37.
"And were you then at such pains to secure them?"
"In the old days, yes," she assured me. In her mother's time there was a regular traffic carried on by means of roving Indians in healing herbs and simples; things you could get now by no means whatever.
"As for instance——?" I was curious.
Well, there was creosote gum, which came from the desert beyond the Sierra Wall, valuable for sores and for rheumatism38. It took me a moment or two, however, to recognise in her appellation39 of it (hideondo, stinking) the shiny, shellac-covered larrea of the arid40 regions. There were roots also of the holly-leaved barberry, which came from wet mountains northward, and of the "skunk41 cabbage," which were to be found only in soggy mountain meadows, where any early spring, almost before the frost was out of the ground, bears could be seen rooting it from the sod, fairly burying themselves in the black, peaty loam42.
But when it came to yerba mansa, Dona Ina averred43, her mother would trust nobody for its gathering. She would take an Indian or two and [94] as many of her ten children as could not be trusted to be left at home, and make long pasears into the coast ranges for this succulent cure-all. I knew it well for one of the loveliest of meadow-haunting plants; wherever springs babbled44, wherever a mountain stream lost itself under the roble oaks, the yerba mansa lifted above its heart-shaped leaves of pale green, quaint7, winged cones45 on pink, pellucid46 stems. But I had never heard one half of the curative wonders which Dona Ina related of it. Efficacious in rheumatism, invaluable47 in pulmonary complaints, its bruised48 leaves reduced swellings, the roots were tonic and alterative49.
I spare you the whole list, for Dona Ina was directly of the line of that lovely Señorita who had disdainfully described the English as the race who "pay for everything," and to her mind it took a whole category of virtues to induce so much effort as a trip into the mountains which had not a baile or a fiesta at the end of it. Other things that were sought for by the housewives of the Spanish Occupation were amole, or soap-root, the bulbs of a delicate, orchid-like lily which comes up in the late summer among the stems of the chaparral, and the roots of the wild gourd50, [95] the chili51-cojote, a powerful purgative52. Green fruit of this most common pest, said Dona Ina, pounded to a pulp53, did wonders in the way of removing stains from clothing.
Then there was artemisia, romero, azalea, the blue-eyed grass of our meadows, upon an infusion54 of which fever patients can subsist55 for days, and elder, potent56 against spells, and there was Virgin's bower57, which brought us back to the patio, for a great heap of it lay on the roof of the gallery, contesting the space there with the yellow banksia roses. I had supposed, until the Señora Echivarra mentioned it, that its purpose was purely58 ornamental59, but I was to learn that it had come into the garden as yerba de chivato about the time the barbed-wire fences of the gringo began to make a remedy for cuts indispensable to the ranchero who valued the appearance of his live stock. When the eye, travelling along its twisty stems and twining leaf-stalks, came to a clump60 of yarrow growing at the root of it I began at once to suspect the whole garden. Was not the virtue32 of yarrow known even to the Greeks?
There was thyme flowering in the damp corner beyond the dripping faucet61, and pot-marigold, lavender, rosemary, and lemon verbena, all plants [96] that grow deep into the use and remembrance of man.
No friend of our race, not even the dog, has been more faithful. The stock of these had come overseas from Spain—were not the Phœnicians credited with introducing the pomegranate into Hispaniola?—and thence by way of the Missions.
All the borders of Dona Ina's garden were edged with rosy thrift62, a European variety; and out on the headlands, a mile away, a paler, native cousin of it bloomed gaily63 with beach asters and yellow sand verbenas, but there was no one who knew by what winds, what communicating rootlets, they had exchanged greetings.
Observation, travelling by way of the borders, came to the datura, which was to set the conversation off again, this time not of plants curative, but hurtful. We knew of the stupefying effects of the bruised pods and roots of this species, and—this was my contribution—how the Paiute Indians used to administer the commoner variety, called main-oph-weep, to their warriors64 to produce the proper battle frenzy65, and especially to young women about to undergo the annual ordeal66 of the "Dance of Marriageable Maidens67."
Every year, at the spring gathering of the [97] tribes, the maidens piled their dowries in a heap, and for three days, fasting, danced about it. If they fell or fainted, it was a sure sign they were not yet equal to the duties of housekeeping and childbearing; but I had had Paiute women tell me that they would never have endured the trial without a mild decoction of main-oph-weep.
"It was different with us," insisted Dona Ina; "many a time we have danced the sun up over the mountain, and been ready to begin again the next evening...." But I wished to talk of the properties of plants, not of young ladies.
The mystery of poison plants oppressed me. One may understand how a scorpion68 stings in self-protection, but what profit has the "poison oak" of its virulence69? It is not oak at all, but Rhus trilobata, and in the spring whole hillsides are enlivened by the shining bronze of its young foliage70, or made crimson in September. But the pollen71 that floats from it in May in clouds, the sticky sap, or even the acrid72 smoke from the clearing where it is being exterminated73, is an active poison to the human skin, though I had not heard that any animal suffered similarly. Dona Ina opined that there was never an evil plant let loose in the gardens of the Lord but the remedy was [98] set to grow beside it. A wash of manzanita tea, Grindelia, or even buckthorn, she insisted, was excellent for poison oak. Best of all was a paste of pounded "soap root." She knew a plant, too, which was corrective of the form of madness induced by the "loco" weed, whose pale foliage and delicately tinted74, bladdery pods may be found always about the borders of the chaparral. For the convulsions caused by wild parsnip there was the wonder-working yerba del pasmo. This she knew also as a specific for snake-bite and tetanus. So greatly was it valued by mothers of families in the time of the Spanish Occupation, that when a clearing was made for a house and patio, in any country where it grew, a plant or two was always left standing75. But it was not until I had looked for it, where she said I would find it between the oleander and the lemon verbena, that I recognised the common "grease-wood," the chamise of the mesa country.
"But were there no plants, Dona Ina, which had another meaning, flowers of affection, corrective to the spirit?"
"Angelica," she considered doubtfully. Young maids, on occasions of indecision, would pin a sprig of it across their bosoms76, she said, and after they [99] had been to church would find their doubts resolved; and there was yarrow, which kept your lover true, particularly if you plucked it with the proper ceremony from a young man's grave.
Dona Ina remembered a fascinating volume of her mother's time, the Album Mexicana, in which the sentimental77 properties of all flowers were set forth. "There was the camelia, a beautiful woman without virtue, and the pomegranate——"
"But the flowers of New Spain, Dona Ina, was there nothing of these?" I insisted.
"Of a truth, yes, there was the cactus78 flower, not the opunta, the broad-leaved spiny79 sort, of which hedges were built in the old days, but the low, flamy-blossomed, prickly variety of hot sandy places. If a young man wore such a one pinned upon his velvet80 jacket it signified, 'I burn for you.'"
"And if he wore no flower at all, how then?"
Dona Ina laughed, "Si me quieros, no me quieros"; she referred to the common yellow composite which goes by the name of "sunshine," or in the San Joaquin, where miles of it mixed with blue phacelias brighten with the spring, as "fly-flower." "In the old Spanish playing-cards," said Dona Ina, "the Jack81 of spades had such a one [100] in his hand, but when I was a girl no caballero would have been caught saying, 'Love me, love me not!' They left all that to the señoritas."
There was a Castilian rose growing beside me. Now a Castilian rose is not in the least what you expect it to be. It is a thick, cabbagy florescence, the petals short and not recurved, the pink hardly deeper than that of the common wild rose, the leafage uninteresting. One has to remember that it distinguished82 itself long before the time of the tea and garden hybrids83, and, I suspect, borrowed half its charm from the faces it set off. For there was never but one way in the world for a rose to be worn, and that is the way Castilian beauties discovered so long ago that centuries have not made any improvement in it. Set just behind the ear and discreetly84 veiled by the mantilla, it suggests the effulgent85 charm of Spain, tempered by mystery. The Señora Echivarra had followed my glance, and nodded acquiescence86 to my thought. "In dressing87 for a baile, one would have as soon left off the rose as one's fan. One wore it even when the dress was wreathed with other flowers."
"And did you, then, go wreathed in flowers?"
"Assuredly; from the garden if we had them, or from the field. I remember once I was all blue [101] larkspurs, here and here ..." she illustrated88 on her person, "and long flat festoons of the yerba buena holding them together."
"That also. It was the time that the waltz had been learned from the officers of the American ships, and we were quite wild about it. The good Padre had threatened to excommunicate us all if we danced it ... but we danced ... we danced...." Dona Ina's pretty feet twitched90 reminiscently. The conversation wandered a long time in the past before it came back to the patio lying so still, divided from the street by the high wall, the clouding fig, and the gnarly pear tree. Beyond the artichokes a low partition wall shut off the vegetable plot; strings91 of chili reddened against it. There was not a blade of grass in sight, only the flat, black adobe paths worn smooth by generations of treading, house and enclosing walls all of one earth.
"But if so much came into the garden from the field, Señora, did nothing ever go out?"
Ah, yes, yes—the land is gracious; there was mustard of course, and pepper grass and horehound, blessed herb, which spread all over the west [102] with healing. The pimpernel, too, crept out of the enclosing wall, and the tree mallow which came from the Channel Islands by way of the gardens and has become a common hedge plant on the sandy lands about the bay of San Francisco. Along streams which ran down from the unfenced gardens of the Americanos, callas had domesticated92 themselves and lifted their pure white spathes serenely93 amid a tangle94 of mint and wild blackberries and painted cup. The almond, the rude stock on which the tender sorts were grafted95, if allowed to bear its worthless bitter nuts would take to hillsides naturally. It is not, after all, walls which hold gardens but water. This is all that constrains96 the commingling97 of wild and cultivated species; they care little for man, their benefactor98. Give them water, said Dona Ina, and they come to your door like a fed dog, or if you like the figure better, like grateful children. They repay you with sweetness and healing.
A swift darted99 among the fig, marigolds, and portulacca of the inevitable100 rock-work which was the pride of the old Spanish gardens. Great rockets of tritoma flamed against the wall, on the other side of which traffic went unnoted and unsuspecting. [103]
"But we, Dona Ina, we Americans, when we make a garden, make it in the sight of all so that all may have pleasure in it."
"Eh, the Americanos ..." she shrugged101; she moved to give a drink to the spotted102 musk, flowering in a chipped saucer; the subject did not interest her; her thought, like her flowers, had grown up in an enclosure.
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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rime
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| n.白霜；v.使蒙霜 | |
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adobe
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| n.泥砖，土坯，美国Adobe公司 | |
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adobes
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| n.风干土坯( adobe的名词复数 )；风干砖坯；（制风干砖用的）灰质粘土；泥砖砌成的房屋 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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condiment
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| n.调味品 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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peddle
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| vt.(沿街)叫卖，兜售；宣传，散播 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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loam
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| n.沃土 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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44
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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45
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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49
alterative
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| adj.（趋于）改变的，变质的，使体质逐渐康复的n.变质剂，体质改善疗法 | |
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gourd
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| n.葫芦 | |
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chili
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| n.辣椒 | |
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purgative
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| n.泻药；adj.通便的 | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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faucet
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| n.水龙头 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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exterminated
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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cactus
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| n.仙人掌 | |
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spiny
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| adj.多刺的，刺状的；n.多刺的东西 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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hybrids
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| n.杂交生成的生物体( hybrid的名词复数 )；杂交植物（或动物）；杂种；（不同事物的）混合物 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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effulgent
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| adj.光辉的；灿烂的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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grafted
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| 移植( graft的过去式和过去分词 )； 嫁接； 使（思想、制度等）成为（…的一部份）； 植根 | |
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constrains
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| 强迫( constrain的第三人称单数 )； 强使； 限制； 约束 | |
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commingling
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的现在分词 ) | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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101
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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102
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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