Margaret of the North

by EJourney

  "Are you sure? Are you not tired? We have had a long day of traveling from London."

  "The night air will revive me. My father had a friend, a Frenchman he met at Oxford, who talked in much detail about the area around the river, the two tiny islands, and the Cathedrale de Notre Dame on one of them, on the Ile de la Cité. He said this section of Paris was vibrant and fascinating for both its people and architecture. I am rather eager to see how much I could recognize from what he had described."

  He studied her countenance, eyes bright and lips slightly parted from anticipation, and he could not but acquiesce. "Well, in that case, we should ask the concierge the best way to the river."

  They proceeded on a path towards the Seine, the river that divided the city into the Rive Droite where their hotel was located and the Rive Gauche on the opposite side. They went along its banks, then up one of its bridges, towards the Ile and the cathedral, its two towers still visible in the evening and rising majestically from the distance, dominating the landscape of the city. They were informed by the hotel concierge that in Paris, finding their way out of any neighborhood was never a problem, that whenever they thought they were lost, all they needed to do was look up, take a direction towards the cathedral and, from there, trace their way back to the hotel.

  The lights delighted Margaret. They drew people out to stroll in places that they might otherwise have feared too dangerous to venture into at night. Evening strollers like them, who walked towards the Seine, found their reward on its gently rippling surface which offered up the city in enchanting images, golden reflections that, in the darkness, would have been swallowed in the water's depth. John and Margaret joined other strollers as they paused, entranced by the city's ever varied images skimming the river's glassy surface—first, while they stood for some minutes on one of the bridges that crossed the river and several times later, while they ambled along the riverbank. Once in a while, they looked up from the dancing reflections to the matching structures, standing solid and immovable. But even on this walk, the tentacle of reconstruction wound its way, by the tip of the Ile de la Cité on the Rive Gauche where a medieval building was undergoing major work.

  At their leisurely pace, they arrived nearly an hour later at the cathedral, its soot-smudged exterior magnificent even in the evening darkness. They stood for some minutes peering in the dark at the two towers, the circular relief between them, the statues that went across in a row on the whole façade and those surrounding the portals. Small spots of light peeking out through the open doors beckoned them in. Illuminated only by a few candles at the main altar and with fewer still scattered along the side altars, the light inside was hardly stronger than outside but it was enough for them to see the choir, the marble statue of Mary in the altar behind it and the massive striated columns that supported a nave rising to an impressive height. "Easily 30 meters or more," he whispered in her ear.

  To their surprise and delight, the large circular rose window at clerestory height—its stained glass discernible from the natural light that bathed it from above—stood out even more in the relative darkness of the interior. Except for a couple in working class garb sitting on the pews, the church was nearly deserted, services having probably concluded some time before. John and Margaret decided to return the next day to see the centuries-old cathedral in its full grandeur.

  They walked a little more briskly back to their hotel, charmed by their first night in Paris, grateful and in wonder once again that it was with each other that they were discovering the city. Paris, magical and even mysterious at night, seemed made for those like them, in the throes of mutual enchantment, their shared happiness expanding simple pleasures into grand adventures. Nearly every night of their stay, usually after dinner at a restaurant, they ended their day with a walk along the river bank and up its bridges just before they returned to the hotel.

  **************

  Subsequent to their first enchanting night, they saw the city change face many times during the day, its surprises—not always pleasant—waiting in the most unexpected places. They returned the following day to Notre Dame and in the clarity and honesty of light that day brought, they saw more evidence of reconstruction. A spire was slowly rising at the crossing on the roof of the cathedral. Also evident were vestiges of stone foundations immediately surrounding the cathedral, suggesting the recent demolition of buildings that had apparently existed only a few short paces away. It was obvious that this flurry of activity was part of the whole plan to modernize the city, an extensive plan that seemed not to have reached, at least so far, all the labyrinthine neighborhoods of "Old Paris" that Margaret had heard about, the maze of streets teeming with life. They were still there on the Ile de la Cité around the cathedral.

  But the reality—what she saw on those narrow streets—did not charm her in the way she had anticipated. Instead, she was struck by how her impressions of these Parisian streets paralleled those she had when she first arrived in Milton, searching for a home to lease. These streets were cramped with people and animals and a stench hung in the air, a stench that inhabitants of the street had probably gotten used to. The life of the working class who packed the houses on these narrow winding streets was in plain view for any passerby: in the bustle that occupied people, the wares displayed or sold on street stalls and, often, also made in open workshops visible from the streets, the laundry hanging out of windows, the debris occasionally thrown out on the streets, the lively concatenation of voices and sounds.

  John and Margaret left the Ile, subdued in mood, sobered by what they witnessed. Margaret wondered sadly if there was as much despair in these Parisian hovels as there was in Milton. Abundance hand in hand with deprivation: was that the fate bought with modernizing cities? They headed towards the Louvre and into the museum to soothe their spirits with pictures and sculptures for a few tranquil hours. Later, they walked to the Champs Elysées and their first café in Paris. Margaret had summoned from deep in her memory the fascinating stories about cafés she had heard from her father's French friend and she asked the hotel concierge, upon return from their walk on the first night, to recommend one they should go to. The concierge directed them to this café.

  A couple of days or so into their visit, they noticed that Parisians made a pastime of going on promenade on early evenings and weekends. Couples and families went on leisurely walks by the riverbanks, along the sweeping boulevards, on the parks and gardens still sprouting around the city, on the quays lined by numerous stalls where they could browse through the offerings of bouquinistes (booksellers). Exercise was not necessarily the principal reason for this promenade. The primary attraction seemed to be more of a social nature, of being seen and discreetly scrutinizing those strollers they passed on their path, of running into and meeting friends, and engaging them in tête-à-tête that, for many, invariably continued in a café. John and Margaret joined in one day on such a promenade, going up rue de Rivoli to a public section of the garden of the royal residential palace, the Tuilleries, and up the Champs Elysées where they concluded their walk at another café.

  As bracing as the promenade was, they found the cafés more intriguing, an ideal setting where visitors could idle over coffee or drinks among the French and observe them play out what being a Parisian meant. John and Margaret embarked on an exploration of the many cafés where Parisians crowded to talk and debate and, in some, even to be entertained by performers singing local airs and operatic arias. The first one they went to, on the concierge's suggestion, attracted the bourgeoisie and upper classes and proved in the end to be the dullest. The café was lively enough and had on an air of sophistication that it drew from its clientele of fashionable ladies and well-dressed gentlemen, who nursed glasses of wine and chatted endlessly. But its atmosphere was subdued compared to what John and Margaret saw in cafés they later happened upon on their own. Cafés were scattered throughout the city and it was easy enough finding at least two a day to fit in between sightseeing and where they could whil
e away a couple of hours or so.

  After they had gone to a few, John and Margaret realized they were particularly attracted to cafés animated by spirited discussions and they went to as many of those as they could manage in their stay. The Rive Gauche nurtured many such cafés, the haunt of swarms of artists, philosophers, and writers, mostly men, who talked and argued, sometimes across tables. On this side of the river were also located many universities, their students frequently housed nearby. These young men crammed the cafés with the flaneurs, the philosophes, and the artistes—inimitable observers and interpreters of the life around them. They all gathered for hours talking, arguing, reading, writing, sketching. Every café had its devotees,—individuals of similar persuasions, whether friends or strangers, who often inhabited the same tables at certain hours.

  The animated interchanges—talks, debates, discourses—could not escape the avid curiosity of someone new to the culture of the Parisian café, fascinated by the world around them, and had enough facility with French as Margaret did. She listened in when she could and translated what she heard and understood to John. The topics across cafés were varied, ranging from art to politics to scientific inventions and discoveries but everywhere, people talked about the new social order that would derive from the massive reconstruction of Paris.

  The cafés existed primarily to serve libations, often coffee, and sometimes wine or beer, but habitués who came nearly daily mostly sought the social interactions that invariably took place. Not everyone ordered a brew or a potion, and more than once, John and Margaret saw different groups of young men—evidently students who wore their shabby outfit like a badge—share single glasses of beer which they passed around not too discreetly while engrossed in earnest conversations. The practice was not unknown to servers and proprietors who apparently tolerated them.

  At one of these cafés, Margaret heard a group talking about an art show where a painting was creating some scandal among both the public and the critics. Margaret was fascinated by the fervid arguments occasioned by the show and shortly thereafter, dragged John to it. The picture causing the uproar was of a nude woman on a picnic with two well-dressed gentlemen and it was attracting people who did not usually go to art shows. Shortly thereafter, Margaret cajoled him into going to other exhibits they found advertised in colorful posters plastered on café walls and in the local journals that the hotel provided its guests. He went along, initially a little hesitant, but he was intrigued by his wife's absorption in the pictures and delighted at the wide range of reactions they drew out of her. She stood in front of some a long time, peering at them closely, sometimes beaming with delight and at other times grimacing and scowling.

  Their forays into cafés and art galleries took them to different neighborhoods. Margaret was relieved to learn on these excursions that although the full-scale renovation called for the destruction of numerous medieval buildings, it had so far spared many venerated old structures. Some in bad disrepair were actually being restored, including the Conciergerie, the historic medieval building they saw on their first night. The Rive Gauche was John's preferred place to search for a café to experience the exhilarating pulse of the city while leisurely sipping a drink. It was in that area at a café on the Boulevard St. Michel that they spent their last afternoon in Paris. They sat close together, saying nothing and holding hands, each nursing a cup of coffee for a couple of hours, already feeling nostalgic for this, their first trip to Paris. It was a sojourn permanently etched in their memories with experiences they delighted in as well as the few that brought sadness and even some sorrow. They also knew, without uttering a word, that they would return. They did not expect the subsequent visits to be as magical as their first but happy remembrances alone were worth coming back to and reliving.

  Of all that Paris offered them on this trip, John and Margaret were most struck by the lively interest in ideas that possessed café habitués and the zeal with which they defended their unique viewpoints. For Margaret, who had lived with books and had listened in on discussions among her father and his friends, such fascination was not unusual and she reveled in it. But John was astounded, thrown a bit off balance. Such fervent interest in ideas was an indulgence he had to forego, a luxury he could not afford in his pursuit of success in commerce. He did not really have much of a choice when, barely a young man, he had to work to support his mother and sister. Later, it was his single-minded quest for commercial success that rendered anything that had nothing to do with his business remote and unimportant. Here, in these cafés, however, he saw how much the French cared about arts, politics, and the social order, investing much energy and time thinking and talking about them, as much, perhaps, as he did in the manufacture of cotton. He saw all these and he envied the French. He envied, as well, their spontaneity, the naturalness with which they hugged and kissed on both cheeks not only when they greeted each other but, often, also when they parted, even after heated arguments. What strange concerns, obsessions and customs these were to someone like him bred on English reserve, particularly one imbued with Darkshire somberness. What a world away from the incessantly whirring, clanging machines and the swirling cloud of white cotton and, yet, it did not seem to matter, it did not bring on the trepidation he usually felt at being away more than a day from the work and the setting that had defined his life.

  *************

  Through all those varied stimulating days of moving among Parisians, John was astonished to find that Margaret spoke rather good French, with little of the English accent he could detect among the young women in Milton for whom speaking French was a mark of the fashionable and accomplished. One night, after an exhausting day of monuments and galleries, they had dinner at the hotel, took a short walk, and retired to their room earlier than previous days. Margaret, who was particularly tired, sat in bed reading a French journal she had picked up in the lobby.

  John sat on the other side of the bed and remarked, "You and Edith must have had a truly good teacher who taught you French. You speak it so fluently."

  "I told you earlier that Papa had a Frenchman friend. Actually I first learned French from him when I was a child and before I was sent to London. My father met him in Oxford where he had studied English literature. He came back to England years later, when I was six or seven, to do translations and write a book. Papa invited him to stay with us and for two years, he lived with us. He said I was at the best age to learn a new language and talked to me only in French. When he returned to France, he wrote me and sent me books, all in French, of course. He entertained us with wonderful descriptions of paintings and drawings, even in his letters that he sent me until he died. I think he nurtured my interest in art." Her voice quivered a little and she looked away, her eyes sad and thoughtful.

  John was surprised by the gravity in her voice and the melancholy that briefly crossed her brow. "How upsetting, I am sure, for an impressionable and sensitive young girl to lose an admired and trusted friend but you must have good memories of him."

  He took the journal lying on her lap and placed it on the table. He inched closer to her, put an arm around her shoulder, and pressed his lips on her temple. She leaned on his shoulder and was silent for a little while.

  She sighed a few times and in a sad voice, she reminisced. "I was 13 and living with my aunt and Edith when he passed away. Not really a child anymore but not quite a young woman either. And yes, I do have good memories but I have not thought about him in a long time. To my admiring childish eyes, he was the handsomest creature I had ever seen, with dark wavy hair, dark piercing eyes and a deep musical voice. I fancied myself infatuated with him by the time he returned to France. I was eight and fantasized he would come back in ten years to marry me. But he died young, in his thirties, I believe." She paused, her eyes poignant with memories of a young girl's awakening passions. John listened in uneasy silence, unwittingly stung with a pang of jealousy that he knew was irrational.

  "I showed him my drawings and he said that I had an arti
st's eye, that he could tell from the way I chose colors and drew a line. His remark made me so happy and proud for days. Later, I began to doubt what he told me because I struggled at my drawing lessons with our London governess. I did find sketching with charcoal and colored chalks quite absorbing but I probably believed those chalks had a certain magic because they were his gift to me, sent over from Paris. In Helstone, I used to take my basket of art materials when I went out for walks so I could draw or do watercolors when I saw some interesting views and objects. As I grew older, other interests beckoned and, in London, Edith also drew me into grown-up feminine pursuits that occupied more of my time. Since leaving Helstone, I have had neither time nor inclination to paint."

  She sat up and turned to face him, her pensive eyes had brightened somewhat. "But, you know, these last few days of going to all these art shows have reawakened my interest. The arts seem to be such a serious preoccupation with the French. They flock to shows in big crowds, write about them and debate endlessly."

  He smiled, glad for the change in her mood and in her shift from the past to the present. "I do not know how much art one can find in Milton. We certainly do not have interesting subjects for it, unlike Helstone with its lush landscapes."

  "No, but it's not only landscapes that interest artists. Remember the paintings and drawings of workers and farmers that we saw done by artists like Daumier and Millet and, of course, that one by Manet that everyone is talking about?"

  He shook his head, smiling at her enthusiasm. "I do not remember any artists, much less tell one from another."

  She pursed her lips and glared at him in mock annoyance, "I thought you were getting as much pleasure as I was from those pictures."

  "I did find the pictures quite interesting, particularly that picnic painting but my pleasure came more from watching you and the many varied expressions on your face as you looked at them." He lifted her face up to his and planted a light kiss on her lips. "I keep learning new things about you that I sometimes wonder how much I really know of the woman I married."