XXIII

Life was very gay for a fortnight. An hour after the Commandante's

surrender he had despatched invitations to all the young folk of the

gente de razon of Monterey, Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, and San Diego,

and to such of the older as would brave the long journeys. The

Monterenos had arrived for the Mission entertainment, and during the

next few days the rest poured over the hills: De la Guerras, Xime'nos,

Estudillos, Carrillos, Este'negas, Morenos, Cotas, Estradas, Picos,

Pachecos, Lugos, Orte'gas, Alvarados, Bandinis, Peraltas, members of

the Luis, Rodriguez, Lopez families, all of gentle blood, that made up

the society of Old California; as gay, arcadian, irresponsible, yet

moral a society as ever fluttered over this planet. Every house in the

Presidio and valley, every spare room at the Mission, opened to them

with the exuberant hospitality of the country. The caballeros had their

finest wardrobes of colored silks and embroidered botas, sombreros

laden with silver, fine lawn and lace, jewel and sash, velvet serape

for the chill of the late afternoon. The matrons brought their stiff

robes of red and yellow satin, the girls as many flowered silks and

lawns, mantillas and rebosos, as the family carretas would hold. The

square of the Presidio was crowded from morning until midnight with the

spirited horses of the country, prancing impatiently under the heavy

Mexican saddle, heavier with silver, made a trifle more endurable by

the blanket of velvet or cloth. No Californian walked a dozen rods

when he had a horse to carry him.

But the horses were not always champing in the square. There was more

than one bull-bear fight, and twice a week at least they carried their

owners to the hills of the Mission ranch, or the rocky cliffs and

gorges above Yerba Buena, the Indian servants following with great

baskets of luncheon, perhaps roasting an ox whole in a trench. This

the Californians called barbecue and the picnic merienda.

There was dancing day and night, the tinkling of guitars, flirting of

fans. Rezanov vowed he would not have believed there were so many fans

and guitars in the world, and suddenly remembered he had never seen

Concha with either. The lady of his choice reigned supreme. Many had

taken the long blistering journey for no other purpose than to see the

famous beauty and her Russian; the engagement was as well known as if

cried from the Mission top. The girls were surprised and delighted to

find Concha sweet rather than proud and envied her with amiable

enthusiasm. The caballeros, fewer in number, for most of the men in

California at that period before a freer distribution of land were on

duty in the army, artfully ignored the unavowed bond, but liked Rezanov

when he took the trouble to charm them.

Khostov and Davidov watched the loading of the Juno with a lively

regret. Never had they enjoyed themselves more, nor seen so many

pretty girls in one place. Both had begun by falling in love with

Concha, and although they rebounded swiftly from the blow to their

hopes, it happily saved them from a more serious dilemma; unwealthed

and graceless as they were, they would have been regarded with little

favor by the practical California father. As it was, their pleasures

were unpoisoned by regrets or rebuffs. When they were not flirting in

the dance or in front of a lattice, receiving a lesson in Spanish

behind the portly back of a duena, or clasping brown little fingers

under cover of a fan when all eyes were riveted on the death struggle

of a bull and a bear, they were playing cards and drinking in the

officers' quarters; which they liked almost as well. It is true they

sometimes paid the price in a cutting rebuke from their chief, but the

rebukes were not as frequent as in less toward circumstances, and were

generally followed by some fresh indulgence. This, they uneasily

guessed, was not only the result of the equable state of his

excellency's temper, but because he had a signal unpleasantness in

store, and would not hazard their resignation. They had taken

advantage of an imperial ukase to enter the service of the

Russian-American Company temporarily, and they knew that if they evaded

any behest of Rezanov's their adventurous life in the Pacific would be

over. Therefore, although they resented his implacable will, they

pulled with him in outward amity; and indeed there were few of the

Juno's human freight that did not look back upon that California

springtime as the episode of their lives, commonly stormy or

monotonous, in which the golden tide flowed with least alloy. Even

Langsdorff, although impervious to female charms and with scientific

thirst unslaked, enjoyed the Spanish fare and the society of the

priests. The sailors received many privileges, attended bull-fights

and fandangos, loved and pledged; and were only restrained from

emigration to the interior of this enchanted land of pretty girls and

plentiful food by the knowledge of the sure and merciless vengeance of

their chief. Had the rumor of war still held it might have been

otherwise, but that raven had flown off to the limbo of its kind, and

the Commandante let it be known that deserters would be summarily

captured and sent in irons to the Juno.

In the mind of Concha Arguello there was never a lingering doubt of the

quality of that fortnight between the days of torturing doubts and

acute emotional upheaval, and the sailing away of Rezanov. It was true

that what he banteringly termed her romantic sadness possessed her at

times, but it served as a shadow to throw into sharper relief an almost

incredible happiness. If she seldom saw Rezanov alone there was the

less to disturb her, and at least he was never far from her side.

There were always the delight of unexpected moments unseen, whispered

words in the crowd, the sense of complete understanding, broken now and

again by poignant attacks of unreasoning jealousy, not only on her part

but his; quite worth the reconciliation at the lattice, while Elena

Castro, gentle duena, pitched her voice high and amused her husband so

well he sought no opportunity for response.

Then there was more than one excursion about the bay on the Juno,

dinner on La Bellissima or Nuestra Senora de los Angeles, a long return

after sundown that the southerners might appreciate the splendor of the

afterglow when the blue of the water was reflected in the lower sky, to

melt into the pink fire above, and all the land swam in a pearly mist.

Once the Commandante took twenty of his guests, a gay cavalcade, to his

rancho, El Pilar, thirty miles to the south: a long valley flanked by

the bay and the eastern mountains on the one hand, and a high range

dense with forests of tall thin trees on the other. But the valley

itself was less Californian than any part of the country Rezanov had

seen. Smooth and flat and free of undergrowth and set with at least ten

thousand oaks, it looked more like a splendid English park, long

preserved, than the recent haunt of naked savages. There were deer and

quail in abundance, here and there an open field of grain. Long beards

of pale green moss waved from the white oaks, wild flowers, golden red

and pale blue, burst underfoot. There were hedges of sweet briar,

acres of lupins, purple and yellow. Altogether the ideal estate of a

nobleman; and Rezanov, who had liked nothing in California so well,

gave his imagination rein and saw the counterpart of the castle of his

ancestors rise in the deep shade of the trees.

Don Jose's house was a long rambling adobe, red tiled, with many

bedrooms and one immense hall. Beyond were a chapel and a dozen

outbuildings. Dinner was served in patriarchal style in the hall, the

Commandante--or El padrone as he was known here--and his guests at the

upper end of the table; below the salt, the vaqueros, their wives and

children, and the humble friar who drove them to prayer night and

morning. The friar wore his brown robes, the vaqueros their black and

silver and red in honor of the company, their women glaring

handkerchiefs of green or red or yellow about their necks, even pinned

back and front on their shapeless garments; and affording a fine

vegetable garden contrast to the delicate flower bed surrounding the

padrone.

There was a race track on the ranch and many fine horses. After siesta

the company mounted fresh steeds and rode off to applaud the feats of

the vaqueros, who, not content with climbing the greased pole,

wrenching the head of an unfortunate rooster from his buried body as

they galloped by, submitting the tail of an oiled pig in full flight to

the same indignity, gave when these and other native diversions were

exhausted, such exhibitions of riding and racing as have never been

seen out of California. As lithe as willow wands, on slender horses as

graceful as themselves, they looked like meteors springing through

space, and there was no trick of the circus they did not know by

instinct, and translate from gymnastics into poetry. Even Rezanov

shared the excitement of the shouting, clapping Californians, and

Concha laughed delightedly when his cap waved with the sombreros.

"I think you will make a good Californian in time," she said as they

rode homeward.

"Perhaps," said Rezanov musingly. His eyes roved over the magnificent

estate and at the moment they entered a portion of it that deepened to

woods, so dense was the undergrowth, so thick the oak trees. Here

there was but a glimpse, now and again, of the mountains swimming in

the dark blue mist of the late afternoon, the moss waved thickly from

the ancient trees; over even the higher branches of many rolled a

cascade of small brittle leaves, with the tempting opulence of its

poisonous sap. The path was very abrupt, cut where the immense

spreading trees permitted, and Rezanov and Concha had no difficulty in

falling away from the chattering, excited company.

"Tell me your ultimate plans, Pedro mio," said Concha softly. "You are

dreaming of something this moment beyond corn and treaties."

"Do you want that final proof?" he asked, smiling. "Well, if I could

not trust you that would be the end of everything, and I know that I

can. I have long regarded California as an absolutely necessary field

of supplies, and since I have come here I will frankly say that could

I, as the representative of the Tsar in all this part of the world,

make it practically my own, I should be content in even a permanent

exile from St. Petersburg. I could attract an immense colony here and

in time import libraries and works of art, laying the foundation of a

great and important city on that fine site about Yerba Buena. But now

that these kind people have practically adopted me I cannot repay their

hospitality by any overt act of hostility. I must be content either

slowly to absorb the country, in which case I shall see no great result

in my lifetime, or-and for this I hope--what with the mess Bonaparte is

making of Europe, every state may be at the others' throat before long,

including Russia and Spain. At all events, a cause for rupture would

not be far to seek, and it would need no instigation of mine to

despatch a fleet to these shores. In that case I should be sent with

it to take possession in the name of the Tsar, and to deal with these

simple, kind--and inefficient people, my dear girl--as no other Russian

could. They cannot hold this country. Spain could not--would not, at

all events, for she has not troops enough here to protect a territory

half its size--hold it against even the 'Americans,' should they in

time feel strong enough to push their way across the western

wilderness. It is the destiny of this charming Arcadia to disappear;

and did Russia forego an opportunity to appropriate a domain that

offers her literally everything except civilization, she would be

unworthy of her place among nations. Moreover--a beneficent triumph

impossible to us otherwise--with a powerful and flourishing colony up

and down this coast, and sending breadstuffs regularly to our other

possessions in these waters until the natives, immigrants, and exiles

were healthy, vitalized beings, it would be but a question of a few

years before we should force open the doors of China and Japan." He

caught Concha from her horse and strained her to him in the mounting

ardor of his plunge down the future. "You must resent nothing!" he

cried. "You must cease to be a Spanish woman when you become my wife,

and help me as only you can in those inevitable years I have mapped

out; and not so much for myself as for Russia. My enemies have sought

to persuade three sovereigns that I am a visionary, but I have already

accomplished much that met with resentment and ridicule when I broached

it. And I know my powers! I tingle with the knowledge of my ability

to carry to a conclusion every plan I have thought worth the holding

when the ardor of conception was over. I swear to you that death

alone--and I believe that nothing is further aloof--shall prevent my

giving this country to Russia before five years have passed, and within

another brief span the trade of China and Japan. It is a glorious

destiny for a man--one man!--to pass into history as the Russian of his

century who has done most to add to the extent and the wealth and the

power of his empire! Does that sound vainglorious, and do you resent

it? You must not, I tell you, you must not!"

Concha had never seen him in such a mood. Although he held her so

closely that the horses were angrily biting each other, she felt that

for once there was nothing personal in his ardor. His eyes were

blazing, but they stared as if a great and prophetic panorama had risen

in this silent wood, where the long faded moss hung as motionless as if

by those quiet waters that even the most ardent must cross in his time.

She felt his heart beat as she had felt it before against her soft

breast, but she knew that if he thought of her at all it was but as a

part of himself, not as the woman he impatiently desired. But she was

sensible of no resentment, either for herself or her race, which,

indeed, she knew to be but a wayfarer in the wilderness engaged in a

brief chimerical enterprise. For the first time she felt her

individuality melt into, commingle with his: and when he lowered his

gaze, still with that intensity of vision piercing the future, her own

eyes reflected the impersonalities of his; and in time he saw it.