“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 occasion
al 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.
“What are we going to do?” she asked. “Just visit some ranch and look at the cows?”
“No, it’s more than that, I believe,” said Mrs. Barclay. “There’s a ceremony called the corrida, the running, when the bulls are moved into Coruche. It seems they don’t just move them; they make a party of it. The bulls are herded along the streets and everyone in town comes to watch. It must be interesting. Mark sounded most enthusiastic.”
“Well … I must say it sounds awfully tempting. I guess school can wait one more day,” Francie decided. “I don’t feel quite right about starting in before I’ve paid the fees, anyway. Let’s leave the arrangements as you made them.” Besides, she told herself, it would be a pity to spoil Aunt Lolly’s first all-day expedition, since she seemed to feel well enough to undertake it.
They started out in two cars about the middle of the morning, carrying a picnic lunch in a large hamper. The Wilkinsons, who had arranged the party, had of course invited Phyllis’ young man Derek as well. There was the usual polite discussion, always necessary in Portugal, as to which car should go first and avoid the dust which the other must take.
The road was bad indeed, but it was the first time Francie had been well out in the countryside and she was fascinated. First they drove through a sparsely wooded, hilly country, between tall pines, but then the land flattened out and the woods were left behind. The road now meandered, leading them over country that looked to the Americans almost like desert.
“I do love these pretty little houses,” said Mrs. Barclay as they drove past a farmhouse that gleamed with fresh whitewash. A broad band of turquoise blue ran around the building near its base, and the shutters were picked out with the same color. A similar blue band encircled the white wall that enclosed house and barn. “It’s a beautiful color,” she said. “Are all the houses in Portugal trimmed in the same way?”
Mrs. Wilkinson said, “No, it’s just the preferred design in this district. You find other arrangements in the north. In the region near Oporto, for instance, they all go in for gray on white. And in other places they use black bands instead of the gray. It’s most effective, I think.”
Within a mile or two they saw another house. Francie said, “It’s rather thickly settled, considering.”
“Considering what?” asked Mark.
“Well, I can’t figure out what the people do who live here,” said Francie. “You can see for yourself, nobody’s farming this land. It’s all dry red soil. Nothing grows on it but those scrubby trees.”
Mark slowed up and stopped the car. “I won’t be long, Mrs. Wilkinson,” he said. “I’m going to show our American cousin here what the trees are.”
He had paused near a very strange-looking tree with a naked pink trunk. The branches were brown and gnarled and appeared normal, but the trunk, as Francie saw at close quarters, had been totally stripped of its thick bark. “Whatever’s happened to it?” she asked.
“That’s a cork tree,” said Mark. “Here’s where a lot of the cork you use for bottles comes from. It’s an important industry. It’s what keeps the people busy, the ones you were worrying about, who live in those pretty houses. Sometimes they grow olives as well.”
“Will this tree die now?”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Wilkinson. “It will grow more bark, and then in a few years they’ll strip it again.”
“Rather on the sheep-shearing principle, I always think,” said Mark, starting up the car.
They had their lunch by the roadside and then drove on into the fringes of the town. A few gaily-colored ribbons had been stretched across the streets from window to window, and there were temporary archways covered with flowers, but the brightest splashes of color, in rugs and patterned shawls, hung like banners from the windows of the high, flat-fronted houses. Francie was thrilled with them.
“There, Aunt Lolly! Those are something like the blankets and heavy rugs I saw in that store. Don’t they look lovely in the sun? Look at that one with big roses.”
Craning his neck to see what she was talking about. Mark nearly ran into a knot of people in the road. They shouted, but cheerfully. Nobody wanted to be angry on this day of festivity.
“Some of those patterns are jolly interesting,” he admitted. “My father has sometimes thought of picking up ideas from the Portuguese weavers for our textiles. But on the whole, domestic English taste runs to quieter colors.”
“I know. Floral patterns in pastel pink and blue,” said Francie, in innocent tones.
“Well, what’s the matter with good honest flowers?” Mark asked sharply. The shaft had struck home, but he grinned at the same time.
“Nothing at all, within limits,” said Francie. “It’s only that I get tired of flowery dresses, day after day.”
Mark said, “We don’t all want to look like pirates.” He spoke with emphasis and looked pointedly at the brilliant red and blue bandanna Francie was wearing for a collar. It was an innovation of her own.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked, rather disappointed.
“As a matter of fact, I do. It suits you. But you can carry it off, and lots of girls couldn’t. It’s not English style, actually. Remember, in textiles one tries to design for the average woman.”
“I don’t see why,” said Francie. “I wouldn’t if I were doing it.”
Mark said, “We try out a few original patterns every season, of course, in the big multiple shops we supply. Once in a while a novelty catches on, but in general they’re conservative in England.”
“You’re telling me!” said Francie, and they both laughed.
“If it comes to that,” added Mark thoughtfully, “nobody’s more conservative than these Portuguese in their taste. Don’t think that merely because they’re traditionally devoted to bright red or blue or black—” Here his lecture was broken off; a driving emergency had arisen, brought on by a large cart, ox-drawn and laden with big pieces of cork bark, comi
ng along in the opposite direction.
“We’ll simply have to leave the cars outside the town, Mark, because of these narrow roads,” said Mrs. Wilkinson after they had got around the cart. “Let’s see what the others are doing, and follow them.”
A man in a black slouch hat told them where they should put the cars, and they came back on foot to the public square, where temporary wooden benches had been erected along the side of a little park. They squeezed in on the back bench, which was highest and safest. It was almost time for the running to begin, Phyllis told them, and the whole town was there. Families with small children sought the safety of the bleacherlike benches, but the young men all stood around in the street, looking eagerly toward the end from which the bulls were expected.
Then, with a fanfare of horns, the local band came marching. Following them came a series of slow-moving oxcarts, some piled with bark and others with olive wood. “In celebration of local industry,” Mrs. Wilkinson explained.
After that, there was rather a hiatus, filled only with the sound of low-voiced chatter and impatient babies crying. Then from the distance they heard excited shouting that drew rapidly nearer, and the bulls came in.
They looked small and frightened. They seemed hardly more than calves, mere pygmies compared with the great oxen that had drawn the carts. They ran in little crowds, kicking their heels and lowering their heads; their gait was that of rocking horses, or small boats on high waves. All along the sides of the street, boys and men shouted and made little darts at them, grabbing at their horns. Behind the bulls came two riders in green-and-red stocking caps, herding them along, their horses tacking back and forth on the cobbled street, passing and repassing each other, rounding up the little bulls.
Still the young men on the sidelines teased the bulls.
“Oh, stop them!” said Francie, grabbing Mark’s arm. “Can’t somebody stop those boys?”
“My dear child, nobody would stop them. That’s the whole idea of the running. The young bloods of the town want to show how brave they are,” he said.