by Emily Hahn
“You sound awfully frivolous, Aunt Lolly.”
Mrs. Barclay sat there looking startled, as Francie made for the elevator.
In a stormy mood she went on the picnic with Mark next day, and in a stormy mood she returned. The others agreed it had been a successful party, but then it always was a successful party, Francie reflected. Nothing ever happened—nothing real or vital. Nobody did anything surprising; nobody’s parents were in financial difficulties; the only excitement in all Portugal, for a foreign girl, was somebody snubbing somebody else at a party. It was not her idea of Life.
Back the day after, in the studio, she heaved a sigh of relief, for here at least she felt, or fancied she felt, something of what she really wanted. All the students were concentrating with intensity on their work, she mused as she looked around. Tomas, the man everyone said was sure to win a prize and a scholarship in Paris, had been there when she arrived a quarter of an hour early, too absorbed in his preparations to notice that she had come in. He was working with big gestures at a very small canvas. The Norwegian girl, the little old man, Catarina and all the others trickled in and set up their work to the tune of comfortable, desultory chatter before the model took her pose and silence fell.
How very strange that Aunt Lolly could not understand this impulse that moved the students. “All this painting” indeed! Francie felt lofty as she thought of the Philistine attitude, compared with her own. Aunt Lolly meant well, of course, and so did Pop, but unless you are a real painter, a real artist, you can never understand.
“And it is no use trying to talk about it,” she said to herself, absently watching Catarina at work. “It is no use trying to express in words what it feels like to be doing something on your own, really creating.”
So rapt was she in this thought that she never realized until Fontoura came in that she herself had created nothing that morning. Then, naturally, it was too late. Fontoura walked over and looked at her painting which was just as it had been two days before, and for a little while he said nothing. Francie felt herself growing confused.
“I haven’t got down to it this morning, somehow,” she said at last.
“So I see. Thinking about yesterday’s distraction, perhaps?” He passed on then to look at the Norwegian’s work. Somebody behind her laughed a little. Francie did not like to whirl around and see who it was, though she longed to do so. But probably it was just a laugh about something else entirely, nothing to do with her at all.
Still, she didn’t feel comfortable about having taken that day off. It was no use trying to explain to people outside—she was repeating her thoughts, they seemed to run round and round in a circle, but it was no good at all explaining to Aunt Lolly. Pop might have understood a little better, if he wasn’t distracted just now by his business difficulties.
At lunchtime, Francie felt unequal to facing the usual chatty student group at the meal in their customary haunt. She went over to Catarina and asked her in a low tone if they couldn’t go somewhere else, just the two of them alone. Catarina was delighted, or at least said she was. “I like to be with you, Francesca,” she said, “all the time. You are so sympathetic.”
They went to a restaurant near the middle of town, and had a good long orgy of talk, all about Catarina’s troubles. A detailed story of a dispute between Catarina and her mother-in-law carried them through most of the meal.
Francie said, “You know, you really shouldn’t stand for it.”
“But what is one to do, Francesca?”
“It’s all wrong,” said Francie. “It’s your baby, isn’t it? You’re the mother and surely you ought to know what to feed it, and how to doctor it. Just because older women think they know best—”
Catarina said gloomily that it was not merely a matter of thinking. “She is so sure she knows best. That is it,” she explained. “I tell you something, Francesca. I do not mind this one thing, this little thing. It was only today, and is worth no quarrel. My mother-in-law adores the child and means it for the best. But what is killing me here—” she slapped at her breast—“what is killing my soul is that they will not leave me alone. It is I, it is myself they are smothering. I am a wife, yes, I am a mother. But I am something more, and they do not want it.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Francie.
Catarina took a bite of crême caramel, smolderingly. Her eyes glowed with pride and rage. Francie looked at her admiringly.
“These people do not understand artists, that is it,” said Catarina at last.
“I know,” said Francie.
CHAPTER 11
They don’t understand,” said Francie to Maria and Ruy. “Do they?” Maria’s face was lit up with intelligent sympathy. Ruy, always more inscrutable than his sister, nevertheless nodded deeply. It was all calculated to make a girl feel much better about—well, about what? What was it that worried Francie so much, these beautiful Portuguese days? For worried she certainly was, if not unhappy, about her work, in a way she could not have expressed.
There was the matter of Pop, of course, but Francie did not feel frightened about herself or him; she was only awfully sorry, and wanted to help. Pop had become a romantic figure, like someone in a turned-around legend; a man rather than a damsel in distress. The idea hardly bore a closer look. Pop was a perfect darling, a wonderful man and all the rest of it, but his rotund self in business clothes bore no slightest resemblance to a young knight in durance vile. Nevertheless—
“Nobody understands about my father,” continued Francie. “Naturally, I want to go and comfort him. He needs me.”
“It seems like your duty,” said Maria, but there was a certain amount of reserve in her voice. Portuguese girls did not so lightly strike out to do their duty, when they were assured their duty lay otherwise. And Francie had already informed the da Souzas that Aunt Lolly was firmly against any change of arrangement. Maria adored Mrs. Barclay; anything she said must be right.
“Besides which,” continued Francie, “they expect me to carry on with the same old round. Parties, tennis, picnics, boating. Quite as if I were not really serious about things. As if Fontoura’s were just a fill-in, sort of.”
This time it was Ruy who reacted in a satisfactory manner. He simply lit up. “I know,” he said. “It is what people always do.”
“They never understand,” said Francie again, and in a companionable silence they walked on, toward the entrance gate of the Feira Popular.
Maria had suggested a visit to this little Coney Island place, as something Francie had not yet seen of Portuguese life. Within a high brick wall, among booths where native handwork and little dolls were sold, where you could try your luck at shooting or having your picture made, there flourished small patio restaurants, coffee parlors, and amusement gadgets like scenic railways. Everything was lit to within an inch of its life; the Fair visitors wandered in a happy pool of yellow electricity, red neon, and flashes of the railway headlights when the little train swooped about overhead.
The three friends strolled around idly, paying little attention to the ordinary exhibits. Ruy knew exactly what he wanted to look at. Every so often the Government put on a special show of something particularly Portuguese. It was not supposed to be like the permanent exhibition in the Museum, where life-sized figures displayed peasant costume, and entire carriages were set up; the little Feira gallery was more likely to contain some modern sculptor’s work, or a collection of antique dolls, especially lent for the occasion.
“Here it is,” he said at last, gratification in his voice, “and you will be interested, Francesca. I hoped this was what they were showing this season.”
Francie was delighted, for the little room was given over entirely to textiles of various sorts, from rare brocades to brilliantly printed coarse cotton. It was the kind of thing that always caught her eye.
“Oh, do wait just a minute, Maria,” she begged. “I’ve just got to take notes on some of these.”
The da Souzas paused and amiably watched as
she dug a small sketch-block and pencil from her handbag, and began to copy down one of the patterns. They were used to her enthusiasm. All Portugal is accustomed to eager people drawing or painting, in the most unlikely places, and Francie had long since lost any self-consciousness she might have possessed about sketching wherever she felt the urge.
For a while the da Souza party had the room to themselves. Ruy, growing bored, strolled to the door and then outside, where he kicked his heels and watched the crowd of visitors. A couple of young men brushed past him on their way in; their clothes and general appearance attracted his eye for a moment, because he was puzzled. Were they English or American? One could not be sure; one only knew that they were not Latin.
Indoors, the blond man leaned over to take a second look at an embroidered shirt on display under glass. He said to the dark man, “Ravishing.”
The English word, and the intonation, made Maria, like her brother, prick up her ears. Like him she was puzzled to say which the speaker was, English or American? She resolved to ask Francesca. But Francesca was too much wrapped up in her work to have heard at all, so Maria remained silent.
The two men moved with a sort of delicate assurance around the room, glancing carelessly at some things and with careful attention at others. Then the dark one spoke, and his voice settled matters for the interested Maria. He was certainly American.
“Pretty routine on the whole,” he said.
“Routine?” The fair man sounded disapproving. “You’re spoiled, that’s the trouble with you. A week ago you’d have gone crazy about it.”
The dark man shrugged. “We’ve seen so much of it. But it’s still good for a page, I suppose,” he said discontentedly. His tour had brought him close to Francie, and now he noticed her for the first time. As his shadow fell across the sketch-block, she moved and glared at him, disturbed. Ignoring her glance, he drew up to her shoulder and took a long, leisurely look at her work.
“Oh, I say,” he called over his shoulder at his companion, “this isn’t bad! Come and look.”
Francie, hushed by astonishment, merely stood there meekly, while both men examined her drawing and looked at the print from which she had taken it, evidently comparing them.
“Interesting,” said the blond man at last, in the tone of one making a concession. “She’s done a really interesting modification there. I wonder if she’s a professional? Have they professionals here, do you think?”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s a professional,” said the dark man disparagingly. “I wouldn’t quite call her a professional.”
They inspected Francie as if she were a wax figure. Maria had gasped, but Francie was too staggered to do even that.
“You might ask,” said the dark man at last. “Try her in French, Jim.”
Francie found her tongue at last. “Please don’t try me in French,” she said. “I couldn’t bear it.”
The pause that followed seemed endless. Then the dark man laughed and broke the spell. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he said severely to his companion. “How many times do I have to tell you that nobody ever turns out to be a native?” He said to Francie and Maria, “I’m terribly sorry. Really I am. One tends to assume that everyone in Portugal is Portuguese; the thing is we’re so used to Spain where people honestly and truly are Spanish—”
“And can’t speak a word of English,” added the other man eagerly. “We get into careless habits, that’s the truth of the matter. I suppose you’re all dyed-in-the-wool Americans. Anyway, we are. My name’s Jimmy Bryan, and this is Will Adams, and we’re making what might be called an ill-will tour of the Southern countries. Now what about you?”
He smiled disarmingly at Francie.
“You’re wrong again, or two-thirds wrong,” she said. “My friends Miss and Mr. da Souza aren’t dyed-in-the-wool, or anything like it. But I’m sure they will forgive you.”
Ruy had drifted back into the room, and was listening in surprise. Now he and Maria hastened to agree as politely as possible. Francie observed that they looked a little stunned, as well they might, by the rapidity with which the acquaintance was developing, but she was sure she could make it all right as soon as she had a chance to explain more about free-and-easy ways among Americans abroad. For herself, she was excited and thrilled, because she had recognized Adams’ name. He was a designer whose word was becoming law—a new law—in the fashion world, a man who traveled around seeking out, among other things, new textile weaves and patterns for the upholsterers and dressmakers of America and England. He and Bryan asked eager questions about Portugal, about which they seemed to assume Francie was an expert, an attitude which embarrassed but flattered her. They had just arrived, they explained; they were without cut-and-dried plans as to how they were to proceed with their exploratory work. Bryan was the technical man of the party, who took photographs and checked up on materials, manufacture and so on, whereas Adams had the original inspirations.
“We’re supposed to be spending our time in Spain, actually,” explained Adams. “This is just a side trip. No doubt you’ve heard about the great thing in Spain? Oh, everybody’s there, simply everybody; people are going to Spain now for their clothes and Paris is tearing its hair.”
“That is surely an exaggeration?” asked Maria timidly.
Jimmy laughed. “Of course it is. Will always exaggerates,” he said, “but the fact is, Spain is by way of becoming a center of the trade just now, and so we’ve been there, in residence, for some months. This trip was a sudden notion. I suppose you’ve come out from the States direct?” he asked Francie.
No, she said, as a matter of fact, she wasn’t in what he called “the trade” at all.
“But you will be,” said Adams confidently. He gestured toward the sketch-block. “You’re bound to be. You look the part, too. It’s obvious.”
Francie was not so sure if she liked that or not. She was not a mere textile designer, she told herself; she was a painter, an artist. However, it was nice to be treated with respect by such a famous man.
The five of them repaired to a little coffee house nearby and spent a pleasant hour with Ruy and Maria giving the Americans advice and suggestions. When they all parted, it was in a blaze of good will, address-swapping and making vague appointments for the future.
“That’s what I like about America,” said Maria during the ride back to Estoril, “the informality!” Looking wistful, she relapsed into her own thoughts, coming out only to say, “We had better not speak of the manner of our meeting to Papa, Ruy. That is, if these young men do call on us, as they said they would.”
“Naturally not,” said Ruy in lofty tones.
Francie listened in amusement only slightly tinged by impatience. How hemmed in everyone was in Portugal! “I may lose my patience sometimes with Aunt Lolly,” she reflected, “but at least I can always tell her everything like this, and she laughs when things are funny.” It made her more contented with her lot—for the moment.
Those two men had really been impressed by her interpretation of the design at the Feira Popular. It was not what she wanted to make her name at, of course, but any appreciation was pleasant. “Let’s face it,” she thought, “I need it, after the cold-shoulder treatment I’ve been getting from Fontoura at the studio lately.”
“That is the way I like to see you,” said Ruy, suddenly breaking into her thoughts.
“Why? How?”
“You look happy,” said Ruy. “Stirred up and happy.”
“Smiling like a kitten,” added Maria.
Francie smiled more broadly.
“Aunt Lolly, I was thinking—” Francie began impulsively, and then stopped short.
“Yes, dear?”
“Never mind. For a minute I forgot the new Economy Drive, and it was a silly idea anyway.”
Mrs. Barclay looked over the edge of the Paris Herald Tribune thoughtfully. “It might not be so silly. Tell me.”
“Well,” said Francie, “it was an old-fashioned thought at bes
t. I was just going over in my mind the people I owe a little attention to, and it seemed to me some kind of party might have cleared up the whole picture. You know, Mark, who’s been taking me around, especially to the Club. And Daphne and all the crowd. And I’d like to do something about Art School and the da Souzas, of course, and those American designers I told you about might like the chance to meet some people.”
“All at one party?” asked Mrs. Barclay in slight surprise. “But my dear, they’ll never mix.”
“They won’t have a chance, since I’m not giving it, but I’ve often thought we may be making a mistake anyway, Aunt Lolly, keeping worlds separate the way we do in your circles,” said Francie earnestly. She leaned forward to emphasize her point. “If everyone always says, ‘Oh, they won’t mix,’ and never does anything to make them mix, why, of course they don’t mix! See?”
Mrs. Barclay smiled. “I see that you believe it,” she said, “and that’s enough for an experiment. Shall we do it?”
The excitement died out of Francie’s face. “But of course we can’t,” she said. “With things the way they are for Pop, I can’t afford it.”
“I think you can,” said Mrs. Barclay, “if you’re careful. Why not ask Phyllis if you can’t use her house? I’m sure she’ll be quite willing, and then you won’t be running up a bill here. As for refreshments—”
“Oh, Aunt Lolly, if only I can use Phyllis’ house! And refreshments are only coffee or punch or something and little cakes. Of course I can do it. Of course I can. You’re a genius.”
She ran to the telephone.
CHAPTER 12
For a time it looked as if Mrs. Barclay’s misgivings would turn out to be justified. Francie discovered it was not at all easy to plan one of the mixed-parties she approved of. It seemed that she might offend people. To be sure, the British were not touchy; instead, they were amused. Phyllis said she thought it would be “a riot,” and Mark puffed at his pipe and grinned as he thought of the possible repercussions.
