“The light’s good,” said Martha.
“That will do for the moment,” said Mr. Joyce.
On the train that bore them to Paris, Martha also for the first time encountered, and did appreciate, mirabelle-jam. Sugar gives energy, which for all her phlegm Martha was beginning to feel the need of: the small ovoid shapes, though still vaguely apparent, were too amorphous to please her eye; for colour (in this case dark amber varnished with gold), she had as yet no eye at all; but to her palate it was the sugariest confection Martha had ever tasted. She scraped her own pot to the bottom, also Mr. Joyce’s; and arrived at the Gare du Nord still licking her fingers. They were clean only just in time (after a final polish on Mr. Joyce’s handkerchief in the taxi) to receive unadhesively the hand so cordially extended by Madame Dubois.
3
“And so this,” cried Madame Dubois, “is to be our little English friend!”
She was the shape of a wooden clothes-peg. From the small round head with its scraped-back grey hair Madame Dubois’ silhouette slightly broadened to include narrow shoulders and flat bust, slightly indented at the waist, then continued as narrowly to ground level, which her skirts accurately kissed. Martha had plenty of time to observe this (standing a pace behind Mr. Joyce in the dim corridor of an apartment in the rue de Vaugirard), because Madame Dubois spoke in French, so that Martha’s eyes weren’t distracted by her ears. She just got the general drift.—She also subconsciously recognized, in the Frenchwoman’s manner, something which it would have been unkind to call obsequious, but which undoubtedly suggested that any protégé of Mr. Joyce’s had the upper hand.
“One does not forget,” Madame Dubois was in fact continuing, “to whose kindness the publication of my poor husband’s monograph on Chardin was so largely due! If only he were still with us to express his renewed thanks! Now we will see Mademoiselle’s room—which one trusts she will not find too simple, after the luxury to which she is undoubtedly accustomed.”
Martha in fact liked the look of the large bare room very well. (Both which attributes, size and bareness, accounted for by its being actually the room of Madame’s daughter Angèle. When Angèle moved out in favour of Martha she took all sorts of things with her—such as a screen she had herself pen-painted with peacocks, and an Algerian leather pouffe, and a fake mediaeval prie-dieu.) The salon, on the contrary, where what was evidently a rather special goûter awaited, exhibited an Arts Décoratifs elegance more to the taste of Dolores: there were even black satin cushions like those at Richmond, but pen-painted with roses (again the frantic work of Angèle). Here Madame Dubois and Mr. Joyce once more conversed in French while Martha silently consumed petitsfours. Even in her native tongue any social effort was a pain in the neck to her; certainly not hers the easy social gift of masking by nod or smile a complete absence of vocabulary. Also despite two pots of mirabelle-jam she still felt for once a trifle exhausted. Instinctively absorbing into her system as much more sugar as possible, Martha simply, and silently and rapidly, ate.
Fortunately no social effort was required of her. At the studio where she was to be enrolled, though he took her along in tow, Mr. Joyce but left Martha to wait in an ante-chamber while he himself nipped familiarly through a further door. Martha was too much below par to be affronted, or even inquisitive, and for the next hour in fact went to sleep in a large dilapidated leather chair. Whatever Mr. Joyce had been saying about her within, whatever the effect produced by the half-dozen of her drawings he carried with him, was summed up to Martha by a mere encouraging (also awakening) pat on the head from a large, big-knuckled, freckled hand …
She blinked up at it suspiciously. It wasn’t Mr. Joyce’s hand. Since she disliked being patted in any case, Martha nearly bit it.
“Je t’ai dit, c’est une petite sauvage,” said Mr. Joyce, over her head. “Tout de même, on verra …”
4
“Who was that?” demanded Martha suspiciously, as they emerged into the street again.
“You’d better call him Maître,” said Mr. Joyce, “because he is going to be your master.”
“Oh,” said Martha.
“And I may tell you you are a very fortunate young person,” added Mr. Joyce, “to be accepted into his studio.”
“Oh,” said Martha again. “When do I start?”
“To-morrow,” said Mr. Joyce.
She ruminated so long, he felt a brief misgiving. Undeniably she was getting pretty drastic treatment: though it was a measure of his belief in her, also experience had taught him that the only way to handle Martha was strictly with the gloves off, nonetheless, for a moment, Mr. Joyce’s heart misgave him. From the patron to the paternal, how short, if retrograde, a step! For a moment, seeing Martha stand so stricken, and even (for Martha) pale, he contemplated taking her straight back with him—restoring her to the bosom of the Gibsons, leaving her to pursue her way uncuffed by any large, big-knuckled, freckled hand …
“Don’t you want to go to the studio?” asked Mr. Joyce.
“Yes, but I don’t know how to get there,” said Martha.
Mr. Joyce, unaware that he had been holding his breath, expelled it in a sigh of relief.
“Angèle will take you, on her way to school.”
“Shan’t I look silly?” asked Martha dubiously.
“Very,” agreed Mr. Joyce, “until you learn which ’bus to take …”
Upon which he returned Martha to the rue de Vaugirard, and himself, having many connections in Paris, enjoyed a very pleasant evening before returning to London next day.
“Sink or swim!” thought Mr. Joyce. “Sink or swim!” exclaimed Mr. Joyce aloud, to a startled pretty companion in the small hours of the morning. “But who would wish to do either,” enquired the pretty companion reasonably, “when all that is necessary is to remain within one’s depth?—Chéri, why not take me to the Lido?”
The suggestion fell on ears deaf as a wise adder’s; but unlike Harry Gibson, Mr. Joyce had had a jolly.
Chapter Three
1
Martha swam.
She was so little homesick, an apartment in the rue de Vaugirard was just as acceptable to her as a Richmond flat; and within a matter of days became almost as familiar. There was her own room, and the salon, and the dining-room and bathroom—this last the least satisfactory: flakes of enamel from its antique tub adhered to Martha’s behind, also the water was never quite hot—and somewhere in the hinterland, so to speak, a kitchen, and the rooms of Madame and Angèle. The general pattern was one lateral (the corridor), crossed by two short arms. Martha settled down in it very comfortably.
Contrary to Mr. Joyce’s prophecy, she learnt to speak practically no French at all. She learnt to understand it; but discovering, for example, that when she said “No,” people understood just as well as if she’d said “Non,” left it at that. It wasn’t as though she had anything she particularly wanted to say. The power of expressing thoughts, or emotions, was unnecessary to her; and not to be able to answer questions a positive advantage.
On the other hand, both Madame Dubois and Angèle learnt a good deal of English.
Angèle was very kind. She had a kind face. She also, by some peculiar freak of genes, precisely embodied the Gallic caricature of an Englishwoman. Five-foot-eight and bony, she moved without grace: a superfluity of combs and pins weighed down rather than secured hair less blonde than mousy; her long large teeth, when she smiled, suggested an amiable horse. Martha learnt which ’bus to take to the studio also within a matter of days.
The basic reasons, however, for her easy swimming lay deeper. They were two. The first was that in Paris painting was accepted as a normal and serious occupation. In the circumstances Martha must have grasped this by a species of osmosis, have simply breathed the knowledge in with the Paris air; she recognized it nevertheless, as do all practitioners of the arts who have the luck to lodge, however briefly, on the banks of the Seine. It was what Mr. Joyce had groped to express: an ethos beside which, upon w
hich, all the expertise of dealers is but parasitic. In Paris, an artist swims not against, but with, the stream.
The second reason was that she immediately re-established a routine. There was the morning period at the studio, then back to the rue de Vaugirard for lunch, then the afternoon period; between goûter and dinner a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens with Angèle served the double purpose of giving Martha fresh air and improving Angèle’s English; after dinner, while the latter corrected exercises and Madame sewed, a programme on the T.S.F. theoretically improved Martha’s French. By ten she was in bed, and slept like a log for the next nine hours, to be ready to start all over again next day.
Even at the studio she had things pretty much her own way. Mr. Joyce’s threat notwithstanding, she wasn’t consigned to the Antique. She was put straight into Life—where she continued, doggedly, to draw whatever heating-pipes or lighting-apparatus the background afforded; until one morning a large, big-knuckled, freckled hand took her by the scruff and hauled her from her position in front of the model to a position in front of the studio stove. Only the general sense of le maître’s anathema reached her, not its classic periods; but it was a commonplace in the studio that le maître never bothered to swear save at a definite talent, and Martha correctly accepted a permission to draw what she liked.—As a quid pro quo, and not without a certain rough humour, she casually executed, the following week, a meticulous one-eighth life-size of the model complete to toe- and fingernails …
“One trusts Mademoiselle has enjoyed the exercise?” enquired le maître sardonically.
“No,” said Martha. “She was like an English model.”
“And what is Mademoiselle’s objection, to English models?”
“Well, they go off the paper,” said Martha.
There was a general guffaw.—All the students had stopped work to listen, for it was a tradition of the studio that any words of wisdom addressed to one were free to be garnered by all. But after this single exchange they were to be disappointed. All le maître ever subsequently said, beside Martha’s easel, was “Continuez!”
2
Fortunately for Dolores’ peace of mind in London, the exact composition of Martha’s class was unknown to her. Of the twenty regular students no less than fourteen were male, and eight actually French. (The tale made up by three Americans, two Dutch and a Swede.) Thus the proportion of males to females was more than two to one—or arithmetically; emotionally, a pretty American named Sally so far upset the tables, by chaining all her fellow-countrymen, four Frenchmen and Nils the Swede to her chariot-wheels, that Martha, one Dane and three other (plain) Americans were left in a proportion of scarcely more than fifty-fifty. Even this would have been enough to make Dolores take alarm; but in one way she had protected Martha better than she knew. Besides warning Martha against red wine, Dolores had also made her three very nice smocks.
They were of blue denim, for hard wear, and at Martha’s insistence all did up down the front, but otherwise, in cut and ornamentation (red feather-stitching), completely traditional. On a more slender figure they might have suggested, quite attractively, traditional milkmaid or shepherdess. (Sally the pretty American was actually to borrow one, and slay her compatriots in it, at Hallowe’en.) On Martha they looked partly like pup-tents and partly like maternity-garments: and successfully quenched in four Frenchmen and two Dutch any notion of making a pass at her.—There were even a few ribald jokes on the point. However, Martha’s unexpectedly matronly appearance contained also a certain matronly consequence, and if she wasn’t made a pass at, no more was she made a butt.
It was Sally who found a nickname for her: Mother Bunch. As Mother Bunch—and though a chuckle might have echoed from Paddington, to see a Young Pachyderm so translated—Martha occupied a position in the studio that suited her very well.
Each Sunday she wrote two letters home: one for Dolores, one for Mr. Joyce.
Dear Aunt Dolores,
I hope you and Uncle Harry are both well. I am too, also working very hard, and the food is not bad.
Yours affec.,
MARTHA
Mr. Joyce received practically a carbon-copy.
Dear Mr. Joyce,
I hope you are very well. I am too, also working very hard, and the food is all right.
Yours affec.,
MARTHA
If they were not epistles to be exchanged, and exclaimed over, with any extravagant enthusiasm, at least their punctuality reassured. Actually Martha’s best effort, directed to Mr. Joyce, was a laboriously-transcribed quatrain in French.
La peinture à l’huile
Est bien difficile,
Mais c’est beaucoup meilleure
Que la peinture au beurre.
Mr. Joyce, reading it, chuckled with pleasure. It was old-hat to him. It was one of the oldest rhymes current in Paris studios. He couldn’t know it was Sally who wrote it out for Martha to copy.
“What did I tell you?” demanded Mr. Joyce in triumph—it was the one letter he did take round to the Gibsons.
“Oh, Mr. Joyce!” cried Dolores, greatly struck. “Do you suppose she made it up herself?”
“No, she didn’t make it up herself,” said Mr. Joyce. (Though it occurred to him that in the unlikely event of Martha’s taking to verse, it was just the sort of thing to expect from her.) “She didn’t make it up herself; but it shows she can understand a joke in French.”
So far by this time had Dolores’ early fears subsided, even the notion of a French joke didn’t dismay her. Liberally, after the rhyme had been explained, she admitted the French to have some quite nice, clever jokes. The really outrageous joke Paris was to play upon Martha was of course yet to come.
Buy Martha in Paris Now!
About the Author
Margery Sharp (1905–1991) is renowned for her sparkling wit and insight into human nature, which are liberally displayed in her critically acclaimed social comedies of class and manners. Born in Yorkshire, England, she wrote pieces for Punch magazine after attending college and art school. In 1930, she published her first novel, Rhododendron Pie, and in 1938, she married Maj. Geoffrey Castle. Sharp wrote twenty-six novels, three of which, Britannia Mews, Cluny Brown, and The Nutmeg Tree, were made into feature films, and fourteen children’s books, including The Rescuers, which was adapted into two Disney animated films.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1957 by The Estate of Margery Sharp
Cover design by Mimi Bark
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3426-5
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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