“Except the wagon,” I said.
“Yes …” She paused, considering. “There is that.”
Twenty
The room was long and low, with two windows that looked across the zanja into an orchard. On the other side there was one window which looked toward an empty corral. Inside the room there were two tables and four benches. There was a smaller table at the far end, and a chair where Thomas Fraser sat.
He arose when we entered the room.
“Miss Nesselrode? How good to see you again! And Johannes-?” “Vickery,” she said. “Johannes Vickery. I hope you will find him a good student.”
“The classes are for four hours only. You understand, ma’am? I have my own work, and can afford no more time.”
“That is understood. I believe you will find him eager to learn. You have how many students now?”
“Only five at the moment. Three young ladies and two young men. Johannes will be the sixth.”
“Very well. Tomorrow, then?”
“Eight o’clock … here.”
He followed us into the yard. He had always been thin. He was thinner now. “It has been good to see you, ma’am. It was an adventure we shared, one that cannot be forgotten. I would never have believed-“ She smiled beautifully. “It is all very well, Mr. Fraser, but a time that is past. Teach Johannes what you can. None of us might be here were it not for his father. Each time I see Mr. Farley, he assures me that is true. He says he never saw a man shoot so unerringly, so coolly.”
“He is a good man,” she told me later, “and no doubt he will write well, but if he is to make a living, he must do more than write. His book must sell, also.” “But surely the stores will do that!”
“No doubt they will carry a few copies of his book, as my store will do, but why should they be bought? What is to make somebody come to that store and buy his book, of all that are available? He must give them a reason. He must somehow excite their interest, and then the book must hold that interest.” We walked along the street, sometimes on walks made of boards but more often of hard-packed earth or even of sand. Here and there flat rocks had been placed to make the walking easier when there was mud. The bookstore was a small place wedged between a general store and a saddle shop, and the books on the shelves were few. There were newspapers and magazines, and she always had coffee on the stove.
“We will be having more books at any moment now. They were ordered long since.” She removed her hat and placed it beside her parasol. “You can help me here, Johannes. Look about and see what we have.”
“You sell books?”
“Of course, but this is also a reading room. Men come to read the newspapers, to talk business and politics. One can learn a great deal that is useful just by listening.
“It is also a place where people can meet me, although, as you will see, Mr. Finney does most of my business for me.” She smiled suddenly, her eyes filled with mischief. “After all, what would a mere woman know about business and politics? A wise woman in these days will listen in wide-eyed innocence, Johannes, ask a discreet question or two, but refrain from comment.” “You shouldn’t tell me this,” I protested, grinning at her. “I shall someday be a man, and I will know what you do.”
“And by then it will have been done, Johannes. In the meantime, listen, learn, and say nothing. Remember, no matter what you do or what you become, you will also have to do business. It is the way of the world, Johannes, so learn what you can now.”
Later she commented, “In the course of a week, every man of importance will come in. At first it was the Anglos and Europeans, now the Californios come as well.” “And my grandfather?”
“He does not read. He can, but he does not. There are many who assume that once they have become men there is nothing to be learned from books.” Standing by the door, I could watch people passing in the street: a pescadero, selling fish from the sea; a vaquero in a buckskin suit and broad sombrero, riding a dun-colored horse; a Mexican woman selling panocha, the dark Mexican sugar candy of which I had heard from Francisco. A passing carreta was pulled by a burro who seemed too small for the task.
At sundown we closed the shop and walked home through streets rapidly growing empty as people went to their homes.
One man paused, removed his sombrero with a broad silver band, and told Miss Nesselrode of a fandango that was being arranged, and would she come? When we had gone on, she said, “That was Senor Lugo. He is of an old family here, with much land. He knows your grandfather.”
“They are friends?”
“No, I do not believe so. Your grandfather does not seem to make friends, nor care to. He is known, respected, and sometimes feared, but he does not make friends.”
“He came from Spain.”
“So it is said. You would know more of that than I.” “My mother said he came from Spain long ago, when she was a very small girl. He was given land by the king. He was a very important man in Spain, and very rich.”
“I wonder why he chose to come to California? He does not seem the type for adventure, and if he had a strong position in Spain, why would he give it all up to come here, to this outpost?”
My father and mother had talked of this, and they had also been puzzled.
“Was your mother the only child?”
“I do not know. Sometimes I think … No, I do not remember.”
Yet I did remember something … something … What? Now that the question had arisen, I tried to discover a reason why a man of wealth and position would abandon it all and come here. California was delightful, but far from the centers of power. Where had I heard that? My father, I guessed.
My mother had talked much of her family, and I could see in her much of the fierce pride the old hidalgos had, pride of family, pride of name, and of person. Yet too often, it seemed to me, such pride was founded upon events of long ago, or just upon the family’s continued existence. Once, seated in the wagon, I asked my father how such families came to be. What had they done?
“Very often,” he said, “he who founded the family would not be received in any of their homes now. The founder was often a peasant, a poor soldier or sailor, an adventurer with a strong arm and a sword who carved his way to wealth and position.
“Usually he was a man of strength, courage, and acquisitive instincts who rode in the entourage of a king or great lord and was given estates as a reward for services in the field or court.
“There were few cities then, and everything centered around the castle. Each lord in time of war was expected to furnish so many fighting men. Shoes, clothing, everything necessary was made by craftsmen at the castle. The only way for a young man to escape from being a serf was with a sword. By courage in battle you might win a name for yourself. There were no shops then, or craftsmen outside the castle, and if you did not own land, your only chance of success was that sword I spoke of. If you did not belong to a castle, you were a landless man, which meant you belonged nowhere, were fair game for anyone, and almost an outlaw.
“Some such men became wandering traders. Later some settled down to practice their trade or craft, and towns came into being. That’s roughly the way it began, in Europe, at least.”
Another day, when the newspaper readers had gone, we closed the shop and I walked home beside Miss Nesselrode. “It is a very small town,” she said to me when we paused to let a girl driving goats pass before us, “but it will not remain small.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It has the sea close by, it has many thousands of cattle, almost anything will grow, and the climate is perfect. It will surely become a great city. “Above all,” she said as we crossed the street, “it has men like Don Benito Wilson, William Wolfskill, the Workmans, and others. They are forward-looking men.
“Do not forget, Johannes. It is men who make a town, and bigger men who make a city.”
“I have known one,” I said, “and you met him, too. Peg-Leg Smith.” She smiled. “You know, Johannes, he was an old scoundrel, I think, but I did like him.”