Francie Again by Emily Hahn Page B

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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œTell him I’d like to take all the courses I can fit in,” said Francie.
    â€œAll?” Ruy looked surprised. “It is not the custom. Most people do only two or three.”
    â€œBut I’m awfully keen,” said Francie.
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œIf