I waited at the door till I was invited by a stout and wrinkled dame to enter. I did so, and found two other women within; one a young woman of no especial noteworthiness; the third—Ysleta—the most beautiful woman I ever saw or expect to see. She was the girl at the well; the Ysleta spoken of by my companions of the night before.
Where this girl got her wonderful dowry I do not know. Beauty is not common among the lower caste Mexicans, though good eyes, hair and teeth are the rule. Yet here was a beauty faultless at every point, a royal beauty which would have become a queen, and with it the queenly grace and superiority which beauty arrogates as of right unto itself, no matter who may be its possessor, or in what land it may be found. And well it may. There is nothing really nobler than a grand human form, just as God thought it. Conscious of the sins of our ancestors still alive in our own misfit forms, we are ashamed and humbled before the fruit of unhurt nature, and we reverence it, appeal to it, almost dread it.
But if Ysleta knew, consciously or unconsciously, that she was beautiful, she was as yet unspoiled by flattery, and, moreover, there appeared in her air a certain humility, a gentle dependence. Advanced thinkers among women will labor a long time before men cease to love this in a woman—no matter what they may theoretically conclude. Taken as she was, this half-wild creature would cause in New York or Washington society a stir which no “professional beauty” has ever yet approached.
Seated on the floor, clad in the lightest attire, Ysleta was a model such as painters do not often find. It seems to me almost sacrilege for a man ever to attempt a description of a beautiful woman. It isn’t quite right. There is something wrong about it. Especially is it wrong where justice is impossible; and that is the case here. I know that the girl’s hair was very long and silky, quite free from the usual Mexican coarseness, and her eyes were very clear and soft. Her half sitting, half reclining position showed every supple line of a perfect figure: such a figure as in three generations would make reform schools needless, churches only half so needful, and doctors a forgotten thing.
Ysleta sat on the floor. In her arms she held a young child. As the stranger entered, she, with some slight confusion, started and turned half about, looking up with wondrous, wondering eyes. But in a short time she was again absorbed in the infant, which she now rolled and caressed as if it were a kitten, and now regarded thoughtfully, with a wondering, puzzled look, half awed, and with so great a mother-love shining in her eyes as made one almost hold his breath. Ysleta left me to the others. What time had she for aught else in life, when here, in her arms, was this strange and most wonderful gift—moving, living, crying, laughing?
Ysleta held up the child before her face. In her gaze was all the melancholy of youth, all the infinite sadness and mystery of love, and all the immeasurable tenderness of the maternal feeling. The poor girl’s face was so tender, so innocent, so dependent! I think the Recording Angel has more than one tear for Ysleta’s fault. With face illuminated she gazed at the child. Her eyes softened, swam, fairly melted—nay, they did melt.
“Muchachito!” she murmured; “muchachito mio! Ah, carissimo mio! Americano mio!”
“My American!” Then Ysleta broke into a storm of sobs, and rocked her boy in her arms, with a big cry for something which she didn’t have.
Perhaps the sight of a white face, even though that of a stranger, touched some tender spot. As quickly as I could, and with a feeling that Providence hadn’t got all the kinks out of the world yet, I went away.