The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

Thomas O. Larkin, United States Consul to California until the occupation left him without duties, had invited Monterey to meet the officers of the Savannah, Cyane, and Levant, and only Doña Modeste Castro had declined.  At ten o’clock the sala of his large house on the rise of the hill was thronged with robed girls in every shade and device of white, sitting demurely behind the wide shoulders of coffee-coloured dowagers, also in white, and blazing with jewels.  The young matrons were there, too, although they left the sala at intervals to visit the room set apart for the nurses and children; no Montereña ever left her little ones at home.  The old men and the caballeros wore the black coats and white trousers which Monterey fashion dictated for evening wear; the hair of the younger men was braided with gay ribbons, and diamonds flashed in the lace of their ruffles.

The sala was on the second floor; the musicians sat on the corridor beyond the open windows and scraped their fiddles and twanged their guitars, awaiting the coming of the American officers.  Before long the regular tramp of many feet turning from Alvarado Street up the little Primera del Este, facing Mr. Larkin’s house, made dark eyes flash, lace and silken gowns flutter.  Benicia and a group of girls were standing by Doña Eustaquia.  They opened their large black fans as if to wave back the pink that had sprung to their cheeks.  Only Benicia held her head saucily high, and her large brown eyes were full of defiant sparkles.

“Why art thou so excited, Blandina?” she asked of a girl who had grasped her arm.  “I feel as if the war between the United States and Mexico began tonight.”

“Ay, Benicia, thou hast so gay a spirit that nothing ever frightens thee!  But, Mary!  How many they are!  They tramp as if they would go through the stair.  Ay, the poor flag!  No wonder—­”

“Now, do not cry over the flag any more.  Ah! there is not one to compare with General Castro!”

The character of the Californian sala had changed for ever; the blue and gold of the United States had invaded it.

The officers, young and old, looked with much interest at the faces, soft, piquant, tropical, which made the effect of pansies looking inquisitively over a snowdrift.  The girls returned their glances with approval, for they were as fine and manly a set of men as ever had faced death or woman.  Ten minutes later California and the United States were flirting outrageously.

Mr. Larkin presented a tall officer to Benicia.  That the young man was very well-looking even Benicia admitted.  True, his hair was golden, but it was cut short, and bore no resemblance to the coat of a bear; his mustache and brows were brown; his gray eyes were as laughing as her own.

“I suppose you do not speak any English, señorita,” he said helplessly.

“No?  I spik Eenglish like the Spanish.  The Spanish people no have difficult at all to learn the other langues.  But Señor Hartnell he say it no is easy at all for the Eenglish to spik the French and the Spanish, so I suppose you no spik one word our langue, no?”

He gallantly repressed a smile.  “Thankfully I may say that I do not, else would I not have the pleasure of hearing you speak English.  Never have I heard it so charmingly spoken before.”

Benicia took her skirt between the tips of her fingers and swayed her graceful body forward, as a tule bends in the wind.

“You like dip the flag of the conqueror in honey, señor.  Ay!  We need have one compliment for every tear that fall since your eagle stab his beak in the neck de ours.”

“Ah, the loyal women of Monterey!  I have no words to express my admiration for them, señorita.  A thousand compliments are not worth one tear.”

Benicia turned swiftly to her mother, her eyes glittering with pleasure.  “Mother, you hear!  You hear!” she cried in Spanish.  “These Americans are not so bad, after all.”

Doña Eustaquia gave the young man one of her rare smiles; it flashed over her strong dark face, until the light of youth was there once more.

“Very pretty speech,” she said, with slow precision.  “I thank you, Señor Russell, in the name of the women of Monterey.”

“By Jove!  Madam—­señora—­I assure you I never felt so cut up in my life as when I saw all those beautiful women crying down there by the Custom-house.  I am a good American, but I would rather have thrown the flag under your feet than have seen you cry like that.  And I assure you, dear señora, every man among us felt the same.  As you have been good enough to thank me in the name of the women of Monterey, I, in behalf of the officers of the United States squadron, beg that you will forgive us.”

Doña Eustaquia’s cheek paled again, and she set her lips for a moment; then she held out her hand.

“Señor,” she said, “we are conquered, but we are Californians; and although we do not bend the head, neither do we turn the back.  We have invite you to our houses, and we cannot treat you like enemies.  I will say with—­how you say it—­truth?—­we did hate the thought that you come and take the country that was ours.  But all is over and cannot be changed.  So, it is better we are good friends than poor ones; and—­and—­my house is open to you, señor.”

Russell was a young man of acute perceptions; moreover, he had heard of Doña Eustaquia; he divined in part the mighty effort by which good breeding and philosophy had conquered bitter resentment.  He raised the little white hand to his lips.

“I would that I were twenty men, señora.  Each would be your devoted servant.”

“And then she have her necklace!” cried Benicia, delightedly.

“What is that?” asked Russell; but Doña Eustaquia shook her fan threateningly and turned away.

“I no tell you everything,” said Benicia, “so no be too curiosa.  You no dance the contradanza, no?”

“I regret to say that I do not.  But this is a plain waltz; will you not give it to me?”

Benicia, disregarding the angry glances of approaching caballeros, laid her hand on the officer’s shoulder, and he spun her down the room.

“Why, you no dance so bad!” she said with surprise.  “I think always the Americanos dance so terreeblay.”

“Who could not dance with a fairy in his arms?”

“What funny things you say.  I never been called fairy before.”

“You have never been interpreted.”  And then, in the whirl-waltz of that day, both lost their breath.

When the dance was over and they stood near Doña Eustaquia, he took the fan from Benicia’s hand and waved it slowly before her.  She laughed outright.

“You think I am so tired I no can fan myself?” she demanded.  “How queer are these Americanos!  Why, I have dance for three days and three nights and never estop.”

“Señorita!”

“Si, señor.  Oh, we estop sometimes, but no for long.  It was at Sonoma two months ago.  At the house de General Vallejo.”

“You certainly are able to fan yourself; but it is no reflection upon your muscle.  It is only a custom we have.”

“Then I think much better you no have the custom.  You no look like a man at all when you fan like a girl.”

He handed her back the fan with some choler.

“Really, señorita, you are very frank.  I suppose you would have a man lie in a hammock all day and roll cigaritos.”

“Much better do that than take what no is yours.”

“Which no American ever did!”

“Excep’ when he pulled California out the pocket de Mexico.”

“And what did Mexico do first?  Did she not threaten the United States with hostilities for a year, and attack a small detachment of our troops with a force of seven thousand men—­”

“No make any difference what she do.  Si she do wrong, that no is excuse for you do wrong.”

Two angry young people faced each other.

“You steal our country and insult our men.  But they can fight, Madre de Dios!  I like see General Castro take your little Commodore Sloat by the neck.  He look like a little gray rat.”

“Commodore Sloat is a brave and able man, Miss Ortega, and no officer in the United States navy will hear him insulted.”

“Then much better you lock up the ears.”

“My dear Captain Russell!  Benicia! what is the matter?”

Mr. Larkin stood before them, an amused smile on his thin intellectual face.  “Come, come, have we not met to-night to dance the waltz of peace?  Benicia, your most humble admirer has a favour to crave of you.  I would have my countrymen learn at once the utmost grace of the Californian.  Dance El Jarabe, please, and with Don Fernando Altimira.”

Benicia lifted her dainty white shoulders.  She was not unwilling to avenge herself upon the American by dazzling him with her grace and beauty.  Her eye’s swift invitation brought Don Fernando, scowling, to her side.  He led her to the middle of the room, and the musicians played the stately jig.

Benicia swept one glance of defiant coquetry at Russell from beneath her curling lashes, then fixed her eyes upon the floor, nor raised them again.  She held her reed-like body very erect and took either side of her spangled skirt in the tips of her fingers, lifting it just enough to show the arched little feet in their embroidered stockings and satin slippers.  Don Fernando crossed his hands behind him, and together they rattled their feet on the floor with dexterity and precision, whilst the girls sang the words of the dance.  The officers gave genuine applause, delighted with this picturesque fragment of life on the edge of the Pacific.  Don Fernando listened to their demonstrations with sombre contempt on his dark handsome face; Benicia indicated her pleasure by sundry archings of her narrow brows, or coquettish curves of her red lips.  Suddenly she made a deep courtesy and ran to her mother, with a long sweeping movement, like the bending and lifting of grain in the wind.  As she approached Russell he took a rose from his coat and threw it at her.  She caught it, thrust it carelessly in one of her thick braids, and the next moment he was at her side again.