Rezanov [90]
dwelt in the capacity of most women; he had appreciated her gifts of mind, her piquant variousness that scotched monot- ony, the admirable characteristics that would give a man repose and content in his leisure, and subtly advance his career. But in those long reveries, at the head of his forlorn caravan or in the desolate months of convalescence, he had arrived at an abso- lute understanding of what she herself had divined while half comprehending.
Theirs was one of the few immortal loves that reveal the rarely sounded deeps of the soul while in its frail tenement on earth; and he harbored not a doubt that their love was stronger than mortality and that their ultimate union was decreed. Mean- while, she would suffer, no one but he could dream how completely, but her strong soul would conquer, and she would live the life she had visioned in mo- ments of despair; not of cloistered selfishness, but of incomparable usefulness to her little world; and far happier, in her eternal youthfulness of heart, in that divine life of the imagination where he must always be with her as she had known him briefly at his best, than in the blunt commonplaceness of daily existence, the routine and disillusionment of the world. Perhaps--who knew?--he had, after all, given her the best that man can offer to a woman of exalted nature; instead of taking again with his left hand what his right had bestowed; completed the great gift of life with the priceless beacon of death.
How unlike was life to the old Greek tragedies! He recalled his prophetic sense of impending hap- piness, success, triumph, as he entered California, the rejuvenescence of his spirit in the renewal of his wasted forces even before he loved the woman. Every event of the past year, in spite of the obstacles that mortal must expect, had marched with his am- bitions and desires, and straight toward a future that would have given him the most coveted of all destinies, a station in history. There had not been a hint that his brain, so meaningly and consummately equipped, would perish in the ruins of his body in less than a twelvemonth from that fragrant morn- ing when he had entered the home of Concha Ar- guello tingling with a pagan joy in mere existence, a sudden rush of desire for the keen, wild happiness of youth--
His eyes wandered from the bright cross above the little cemetery where he was to lie, and con- tracted with an expression of wonder. Where had Jon found Castilian roses in this barren land? No man had ever been more blest in a servant, but could even he--here-- With the last triumph of will over matter he raised his head, his keen, search- ing gaze noting every detail of the room, bare and unlovely save for its altar and ikons, its kneeling priests and nuns. His eyes expanded, his nostrils quivered. As he sank down in the embrace of that final delusion, his unconquerably sanguine spirit flared high before a vision of eternal and unthink- able happiness.
So died Rezanov; and with him the hope of Rus- sians and the hindrance of Americans in the west; and the mortal happiness and earthly dross of the saintliest of California's women.
End
Theirs was one of the few immortal loves that reveal the rarely sounded deeps of the soul while in its frail tenement on earth; and he harbored not a doubt that their love was stronger than mortality and that their ultimate union was decreed. Mean- while, she would suffer, no one but he could dream how completely, but her strong soul would conquer, and she would live the life she had visioned in mo- ments of despair; not of cloistered selfishness, but of incomparable usefulness to her little world; and far happier, in her eternal youthfulness of heart, in that divine life of the imagination where he must always be with her as she had known him briefly at his best, than in the blunt commonplaceness of daily existence, the routine and disillusionment of the world. Perhaps--who knew?--he had, after all, given her the best that man can offer to a woman of exalted nature; instead of taking again with his left hand what his right had bestowed; completed the great gift of life with the priceless beacon of death.
How unlike was life to the old Greek tragedies! He recalled his prophetic sense of impending hap- piness, success, triumph, as he entered California, the rejuvenescence of his spirit in the renewal of his wasted forces even before he loved the woman. Every event of the past year, in spite of the obstacles that mortal must expect, had marched with his am- bitions and desires, and straight toward a future that would have given him the most coveted of all destinies, a station in history. There had not been a hint that his brain, so meaningly and consummately equipped, would perish in the ruins of his body in less than a twelvemonth from that fragrant morn- ing when he had entered the home of Concha Ar- guello tingling with a pagan joy in mere existence, a sudden rush of desire for the keen, wild happiness of youth--
His eyes wandered from the bright cross above the little cemetery where he was to lie, and con- tracted with an expression of wonder. Where had Jon found Castilian roses in this barren land? No man had ever been more blest in a servant, but could even he--here-- With the last triumph of will over matter he raised his head, his keen, search- ing gaze noting every detail of the room, bare and unlovely save for its altar and ikons, its kneeling priests and nuns. His eyes expanded, his nostrils quivered. As he sank down in the embrace of that final delusion, his unconquerably sanguine spirit flared high before a vision of eternal and unthink- able happiness.
So died Rezanov; and with him the hope of Rus- sians and the hindrance of Americans in the west; and the mortal happiness and earthly dross of the saintliest of California's women.
End