"Still Petrograd is a cold, dreary place compared to California."
"But what difference would that make? A woman would give up everything and count it no sacrifice for the man she loved."
"And you said only yesterday—"
"Oh, but that was different," I assured him, my cheeks burning under his gaze. "Rezánov loved California. He thought it so wonderful that he wanted it for a Russian province, and he would have brought Concepcion back to visit—"
"Boston is nearer than Petrograd and not so cold. Don't you think you could teach me to love California, too?"
"Perhaps," I acknowledged. Then anxious to turn the conversation, I asked: "Would you like to see the location of the old Spanish fort?" He nodded and we took the road leading to the present Fort Point. "I can't show you the exact location," I confessed, "because the United States cut down the bold promontory, Cantil Blanco, in order to place the present fortification close to the water's edge, but if you will use your imagination and picture a white cliff towering a hundred feet above the water at the point where Fort Winfield Scott now stands, you will see the entrance to the bay as it was in Spanish days. Here was located the old fort, called Castilla San Joaquin, which guarded the harbor for many years. Made of adobe in the shape of a horseshoe, so perishable that the walls crumbled every time a shot was fired, still it answered its purpose, as it was never needed for anything but friendly salutes, and even these were at times, perforce, omitted. The Russian, Kotzebue, states that when he entered the harbor he was impressed by the old fort and the soldiers drawn up in military array, but wondered that no return was made to his salute. A little later, however, the omission of the courtesy was explained when a Spanish officer boarded the vessel and asked to borrow sufficient powder for this purpose. Moreover, Robinson tells us that frequently during the afternoon's siesta a foreign ship would pass the fort, drop anchor in Yerba Buena Cove, and spend several days in the bay before the Presidio officers would know of its presence. But this was after the time of Luis Argüello."
One by one the palaces of light in the Exposition grounds below us burst into radiance. The Horticultural dome turned to a wonderful iridescent bubble and the Tower of Jewels caught and reflected the light that played upon it. Wide bands of color streaked the sombre sky, transforming the clouds to shades of violet, yellow and rose. "The rainbow colors of promise," he said gently as he drew closer. "I shall take them as a message of hope that I shall win the love of the woman who is dearer to me than all else in life!"
The Plaza
A Chinese Restaurant. Yerba Buena and the Reminiscences of a Forty-Niner
The Plaza and its Echoes