My dear Brother-in-Law,—Please let me write again in Spanish,
I cannot trust my English, and I am aware, from what your brother used
to say, that army officers educated at the Military Academy of the United
States are taught our tongue. It is as I told you in my other
letter: both my poor sister and her husband, when they found they could
not recover, expressed the wish that you should have their little Catherine—as
knowing that you would presently be retired from the army—rather
than that she should remain with me, who am broken in health, or go
to your mother in California, whose health is also frail.
You do not know the child, therefore I must tell you something about
her. You will not be ashamed of her looks, for she is a copy in
little of her beautiful mother—and it is that Andalusian beauty
which is not surpassable, even in your country. She has her mother’s
charm and grace and good heart and sense of justice, and she has her
father’s vivacity and cheerfulness and pluck and spirit of enterprise,
with the affectionate disposition and sincerity of both parents.
My sister pined for her Spanish home all these years of exile; she
was always talking of Spain to the child, and tending and nourishing
the love of Spain in the little thing’s heart as a precious flower;
and she died happy in the knowledge that the fruitage of her patriotic
labors was as rich as even she could desire.
Cathy is a sufficiently good little scholar, for her nine years;
her mother taught her Spanish herself, and kept it always fresh upon
her ear and her tongue by hardly ever speaking with her in any other
tongue; her father was her English teacher, and talked with her in that
language almost exclusively; French has been her everyday speech for
more than seven years among her playmates here; she has a good working
use of governess—German and Italian. It is true that there
is always a faint foreign fragrance about her speech, no matter what
language she is talking, but it is only just noticeable, nothing more,
and is rather a charm than a mar, I think. In the ordinary child-studies
Cathy is neither before nor behind the average child of nine, I should
say. But I can say this for her: in love for her friends and in
high-mindedness and good-heartedness she has not many equals, and in
my opinion no superiors. And I beg of you, let her have her way
with the dumb animals—they are her worship. It is an inheritance
from her mother. She knows but little of cruelties and oppressions—keep
them from her sight if you can. She would flare up at them and
make trouble, in her small but quite decided and resolute way; for she
has a character of her own, and lacks neither promptness nor initiative.
Sometimes her judgment is at fault, but I think her intentions are always
right. Once when she was a little creature of three or four years
she suddenly brought her tiny foot down upon the floor in an apparent
outbreak of indignation, then fetched it a backward wipe, and stooped
down to examine the result. Her mother said:
“Why, what is it, child? What has stirred you so?”
“Mamma, the big ant was trying to kill the little one.”
“And so you protected the little one.”
“Yes, manure, because he had no friend, and I wouldn’t
let the big one kill him.”
“But you have killed them both.”
Cathy was distressed, and her lip trembled. She picked up the
remains and laid them upon her palm, and said:
“Poor little anty, I’m so sorry; and I didn’t mean
to kill you, but there wasn’t any other way to save you, it was
such a hurry.”
She is a dear and sweet little lady, and when she goes it will give
me a sore heart. But she will be happy with you, and if your heart
is old and tired, give it into her keeping; she will make it young again,
she will refresh it, she will make it sing. Be good to her, for
all our sakes!
My exile will soon be over now. As soon as I am a little stronger
I shall see my Spain again; and that will make me young again!
MERCEDES.
