Francie Again (6 page)

“Well, yes,” said Mark rather doubtfully, “but you don't want to overdo it.”

“You can't overdo it,” said Francie.

Mark said, “Oh, come now. You mean to say you want to go native and all that?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You wouldn't want to be a Portuguese girl really,” he said, “with chaperones following you wherever you go. That wouldn't suit your style at all.”

“It most decidedly would not,” put in Phyllis, overhearing their talk. “Francie's the very opposite of Portuguese. She goes around all alone in the most independent manner, at all times of the day and night.”

She spoke in a spirit of good-natured raillery, but Mark took it seriously. “Is that true?” he asked Francie.

“Why shouldn't I? The conventions here are simply ridiculous,” said Francie. “I think it's just silly trying to live up to them. After all, I'm American. It's not the way I was brought up. Why be hypocritical?” She paused, but as Mark still looked unconvinced she added, “Phyllis is getting at me just because I went to the movies by myself the other afternoon and she happened to meet me coming out.”

Phyllis laughed. “Happened to meet her! The awed populace did everything to call my attention. They even cleared a space for her. There was no chance of missing Francie in that crowd. It was after dark,” she said in explanation.

“It's quite all right really,” Francie assured Mark, who was frowning. “Nothing ever happens to me.”

“No, of course not, and I don't suppose anything will,” he said. “They're a law-abiding people on the whole. But you don't want to overdo it. I'm not thinking of danger, but it just doesn't look well.”

“Oh, pooh,” said Francie.

Maria and Ruy had taken Francie to her first bullfight, to watch a celebrated matador making his first appearance of the season. It was seven o'clock on Sunday evening when they brought her back to Estoril, and they came in for a farewell cup of coffee. Aunt Lolly was waiting. The hotel lounge was brilliant, crowded with holiday-makers. Motorists or residents, they were gaily dressed and having fun in their decorous way. There was never anything Sundaylike, as Francie knew it, on that day of the week in Portugal.

“What was it like?” asked Mrs. Barclay, after they had ordered their coffee and cakes.

Francie said, “Well … I feel all mixed up.”

“She really is mixed up,” Maria assured Mrs. Barclay. “She was torn two ways, all through the show.”

“I was afraid she might faint,” said Ruy gravely. “English ladies do now and then. I cannot understand why they come to see it in the first place.”

Francie said, “I wasn't near fainting, truly. It didn't seem that bad. The pageantry was marvelous! I kept wishing Penny could be with us because she loves the theater in great gobs, and that is what a bullfight is. But—well, I don't know if I'd ever want to go again.”

“If you were to go only once again,” said Ruy, “you would become addicted.”

“Then I won't,” said Francie definitely. “Still, I had to see it once, to discover what all the talk is about. The thing is, you simply mustn't begin to think about the bull. I know I should simply hate a Spanish fight. They're much more cruel, with all the horses, and really killing the bull.”

“So, now you have done your duty,” said Ruy. “You have not come to Portugal in vain.”

Francie looked at him suspiciously. She didn't know how serious he might be. “I think on the whole I'll go back to ballet,” she said. “I can enjoy that with a clear conscience.”

“Oh, how lucky you are! I would give anything,” said Maria, “for a whole season of ballet in New York. Some day I can do it again, perhaps.”

Mrs. Barclay said, “Let's hope you can visit Francie in New York soon, and have your fill of theater.”

“It is my dream,” said Maria.

Francie had been biding her time all afternoon, waiting to make a request of Ruy. Now the time seemed to have come. “Speaking of dreams, aren't you ever going to introduce me to Fontoura, or are you going to keep putting me off?” she demanded. She said in explanation to Aunt Lolly, “That's Ruy's friend with the art classes, you know. Ruy seems to think I'll snub him, or do something else perfectly terrible. He's afraid to take me to the school. Aren't you, Ruy?”

Ruy said carefully, “I don't think you'll snub him. It is rather the other way round. Fontoura is a serious man, who wishes his pupils to be serious as well.”

“You mean I'm not serious!”

“I did not say that,” said Ruy. “Only, forgive me, it doesn't sound like the sort of pupil Fontoura is interested in—a rich American girl on a visit to Estoril.” At sight of Francie's hurt face he added hurriedly, “That is because he doesn't know you. I will explain to him.” He looked into her eyes and repeated emphatically, “I will explain to him, Francesca.
I
know you are serious.”

“There!” Maria's voice dispersed Francie's embarrassment. “It is settled, if Ruy says he will do that. Fontoura will take his word for it.”

The solemnity of the discussion rather depressed Francie. Of course it was sweet of Ruy to accept her good intentions—and he did seem to think she had talent as well, otherwise he would never consent to introduce her to his precious school. (“Though he may be keen on me. That would explain it,” she admitted in her thoughts.) But about his promise there was an atmosphere of what might almost be called dedication.

“It needn't matter all that much,” she reflected uneasily. “After all, Fontoura's studio is only an art school, when all's said and done. It's not a church.”

Her misgivings were not allayed on the important day of days when Ruy arrived to escort her to the studio. When Francie thanked him for his trouble as they started out, he said formally,

“It is nothing. My father was glad to give me the morning free. He sends his compliments to Miss Francesca.”

“That was very kind of him,” said Francie in rather faint tones.

She was silent as they walked toward the train platform. Her portfolio had never seemed so large and clumsy. She would not permit Ruy to carry it, though he offered to. Looking timidly at him, she saw to her surprise that he was smiling in a quiet way.

“You are nervous,” he said at last, not asking a question but stating a fact. “I know what it is like, the first time. Never mind, Fontoura won't hurt you.”

Francie forced a laugh. “He might hurt my feelings, though,” she said.

Ruy did not deny it. Her nervousness increased. She tried to concentrate on the glimpses of sea which she caught as the train rolled along. A fleet of fishing boats was coming in. She saw little russet sails like a flight of ducks, and then they were out of sight, cut off by a great urban block of raspberry-colored flats.

“The sky is blue,” she began to recite to herself, deliberately trying to forget her ordeal. “The ground is tan, with here and there a patch of tough vegetation. Olive trees, perhaps? The sky is blue; the sea is blue. The natives are good-looking people and the women walk with the straightest backs I have ever seen, and their full skirts are wonderfully graceful. Oh, dear, aren't we there yet? The sky is blue—”

“Courage,” said Ruy. They had arrived at their station. He pushed open the door and stepped out in the casual European manner Francie could never get used to, for she came of a people that always rushed in and out of trains. Still, she followed him as casually as she could manage.

They were now in the outskirts of Lisbon, in a quarter that was less ancient than the squares and cathedrals Francie knew. They walked uphill along a wide thoroughfare, then turned off into a curving street, between stucco houses painted in a variety of soft colors—yellow, pastel blue and pink. The tints had weathered in the sun and looked, somehow, exactly right for the ground on which they stood.

“The Portuguese are the most amazing people, aren't they?” asked Francie. “It's as if they couldn't go wrong on houses, or streets, or any kind of city planning. Look there now, down that side street. Those places were built at different times, I suppose, just any old way, and yet they couldn't be righter. Or am I talking nonsense?”

“No, it is not nonsense,” said Ruy. “It is our particular genius which you have recognized.”

The strange streets twisted in a most confusing manner, but the young people turned in at last to a small cobbled lane which ended at a door set in a brick wall.

“It was a garage,” explained Ruy, “and Fontoura discovered the possibilities accidentally. He was living in that house there, and happened to see that the light is not cut off from the garage roof.” He rang the bell as if he were putting a full stop to the sentence, all too soon for Francie, who gripped her portfolio in a last-minute panic.

A servant answered the door, and went to call Fontoura. The much-heralded man was small, with a lined little face, clean shaven. He came rapidly into the anteroom, wearing a stained smock. At sight of Ruy his face brightened, and to Francie's secret amusement they greeted each other in the Portuguese manner to which she was not yet accustomed, with joyful exclamations and a half-embrace. There was quite a session on the threshold, what with introductions, compliments, and Ruy's interpretations between Fontoura and Francie. Talking, they walked together into the main workroom, a long, glass-roofed hall.

Francie sniffed. The odor was reminiscent—oil, turps, wet clay, the smell of all art schools anywhere in the world. In spite of being worried, she felt cheered. Five or six young people, in smocks or aprons, were working from a model down at the other end of the room. The model was a chunky young woman standing on a dais. Three of the students had easels, and the other three were sitting on the floor using sketch pads, Francie noticed. It seemed a very independent sort of class. She looked at them with bright, interested eyes, wondering if she would be joining their ranks soon, and they looked back in friendly curiosity.

Ruy had already notified Fontoura of their visit, she knew, and had overcome his objections to taking on another pupil, though at first the artist had insisted he was already too crowded. Everything depended now on what he thought of her work. Francie did not dare to wonder what might happen if he didn't consider her good enough. While he and Ruy talked, she wandered over to the wall and pretended to examine some charcoal drawings that were pinned there. She had already put down her portfolio on a little table.

A pause in the chatter behind her made her turn around. Horrors! Fontoura and Ruy had opened the portfolio and were looking through her things. She hurried back to them.

“You see what I mean,” Ruy said to Fontoura, speaking English in deference to her feelings. “A good sense of color. The drawing, of course, needs—”

Fontoura cut in with a flood of Portuguese. “If only I'd learned something of this language before!” thought Francie. She listened intently, trying to make out what on earth he was saying, but it was impossible to tell. Ruy smiled at her apologetically, patiently waiting until Fontoura drew breath.

At last Fontoura turned to her, and said, “All right. You like to come tomorrow?”

It was as easy as that.

In a rush of relief, Francie swept through the business details like a whirlwind. Here again Ruy had to help in the interpreting. He explained that Fontoura did not run his school like a regular, formal institution; he was a private teacher only. But there were various classes in the studio, some of them not taught by himself. Francie could have her choice of several. There was one course in clay modeling, for instance. Fontoura believed that modeling was a help to any artist, even one who like Francie wished to specialize in painting. There was another in which a teacher took you to the Museum and helped you to make copies of masterpieces. The ordinary drawing Fontoura himself took care of. He also criticized water colors, and gave occasional demonstrations.

“Tell him I'd like to take all the courses I can fit in,” said Francie.

“All?” Ruy looked surprised. “It is not the custom. Most people do only two or three.”

“But I'm awfully keen,” said Francie.

“But Francesca,” said Ruy, “have you thought of what it will cost? Fontoura is not cheap, you know, and the other masters' courses, not to speak of your materials—”

Francie made an expansive gesture. “That's the least of my worries,” she said. “You tell him I'll take as much as the traffic will bear.”

Fontoura too looked a little surprised, but he bowed and said, “Good.”

“If he'll make out what it all costs, or ask his secretary to, I'll pay in advance,” said Francie. “Pop likes me to pay in advance.”

“Once a quarter is the custom,” said Ruy, but Francie said she would pay a year's fees immediately.

She was so happy she wanted to skip on the way back to the station.

“I hope the arrangement will be satisfactory for everybody,” said Ruy. “You are so impulsive, you Americans!”

“Oh, I do thank you, Ruy. I do appreciate what you've done,” said Francie. “I can hardly wait for tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 6

Francie didn't get to school the next day after all. She felt the slightest bit guilty about it, but, as she told herself, it really wasn't her fault or anybody else's that Mrs. Barclay had made a date for her while she was out.

“Provisionally, of course,” said Mrs. Barclay, in explanation. “I told Mark when he telephoned that I wasn't sure you wouldn't be busy, and it never occurred to me you'd be starting in on your classes so promptly. But you can explain to Mark; I've no doubt he'll understand.”

Francie thought it over. Mark's invitation, which included Aunt Lolly, was for an all-day jaunt to Coruche, in the country east of Lisbon, a region famous for its bulls. There on ranches the tough little bulls were bred and trained in preparation for their appearance in the arenas of Spain and Portugal.