The Little Madeleine the Autobiography of a Young Girl in Montmartre
Total Page：16
File Type：pdf, Size：1020Kb
1 09 047 TTWE LITTL.K Books by Mrs* Robert Hcwey LONDON THK UTTI,F, MAM-UIN!-' Pubthht'J hy . P, IHITTON A {.()., INC,, THE LITTLE MADELEINE THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A YOUNG GIRL IN MONTMARTRE by MRS. ROBERT HENREY t S T IH2 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY, INC. New York, 1953 4- C:I M fm n* f, S. .\ 1 I- I U S I I It I T I O N f* f/*/,v h<*t*k nitty he w tt r in UHHAHY t>K <;ON<WK** CATAt.fK; C Allt> NUMHICH, 52-12157 This is the story of my girlhood. No fact has been altered. Rach character bears his, or her, own name. THE LITTLE MADELEINE WAS born on 1 3th August 1 906 in Montmartre in a steep cobbled street of leaning houses, slate-coloured and old, under the shining lofti- ness of the Sacr-Coeur, Matilda, my mother, describing to me later this uncommodious but picturesque corner which we left soon after my birth, stressed the curious characters from the Auvcrgne and from Brittany who kept modest cafts with zinc bars- Behind these they toiled, storing in dark courtyards or in windowless rooms coal, charcoal, and firewood dipped in resin, which the inhabitants of our street, who never had any money to spare, bought in the smallest quantities such as a pailful at a time* The Auvergnat traders in particular formed a clan of their own, each knowing from which village the others came, all speaking patois, and so unaccustomed to French that they mangled it when speaking and could only write their names. The woman who owned the caf6 over which we lived had a sister called Mme Gaillard, a fine-looking person who had come /rom the rockincss of her native village to Paris to sell lace. Her stock-in-trade consisted of a large red umbrella with a cherry- wood handle rubbed to a shine, and two chests opening out fanways on leather hinges which she placed on a deal table sup- ported by trestles* These contained the more valuable stock such as laced table linen, curtains, and lace blouses* The red umbrella, opened out and placed point downwards, formed a recipient for cheaper laces sold by the yard, or made-up articles which, whilst inexpensive, attracted knowledgeable customers by the excellence of their quality. My father would take his aperitif every day at the cafi down- stairs, and buy his litre of red wine for the table, my mother going there for a pail of coal or a bag of charcoal When my mother was expecting my baby brother and was too advanced in preg- nancy to fetch the piece goods on which she aewed buttons and 2. THE LITTLE MADELEINE press-studs at home, Mme Gaillard, being at the cafiS with her sister, the owner, offered to teach Matilda how to work lace, an art in which few were expert. My mother accepted. She was a genius with the needle, as others are, born with minds rich in melody or with eyes receptive to colour, and her fingers took naturally to the softness and prettiness of lace. She started with window curtains and house linen. Then, carried forward on wings of creation, put together her first lace blouse, which was immediately sold by Mme Gaillard to a wealthy South American woman. Mme Gaillard now gave my mother Valenciennes laces of increasing beauty which were turned into blouses as fine as spiders* webs. Unfortunately, alone in her room, bending over her work, she earned hardly anything. In winter she was cold. In summer, the sun beating on the adjoining roofs sent red-hot reverberations of lead and zinc through the attic window. Her days passed slowly. From time to time neighbours from the Auvergne or from Lombardy quarrelled in the courtyard. A street singer with a baby in her shawl sang a romance, but before it was finished the concierge would come out and noisily chase her away with a broom. My mother had a sister called Marie-Th<5rse with whom she was brought up at Blois where my aunt was seduced by a young soldier who looked very fine dancing the polka and the mazurka in his gaudy uniform. The regiment crossed the Loire behind flaming torches every Sunday evening so that the population could dance in the main square to the sound of a brass band. Marie-Thrfese and her soldier had loved each other passionately for a while, but when Marie-Thr&se was pregnant the soldier disappeared. My aunt ran away to Paris where my mother was already married to father and was with in Montmartre. my living him . As they were so poor and my mother was expecting my baby brother I had been sent to a foster-mother at Soissons. Marie- Th&cise was not able to find work when she arrived, her preg- nancy being too visible, and she therefore knocked at my mother's door asking for hospitality. She was pretty but irresponsible. Her dream was to make hats. She was later to show a real gift for this, but the sort of work my mother did, mounting lace, was too finicky for my aunt, who passed a good deal of her time dreaming and cutting out the THE LITTLE MADELEINE 3 romantic serials from the daily papers, which she eagerly discussed with anybody who would listen to her. Her tireless chirruping rather fatigued my mother who was serious and taciturn and just now wondering how she would manage to make ends meet after the birth of her second child. Within a week Marie-Th6tse knew everybody in Montmartre. It did not even seem to matter to her that the Italians and the people from the Auvergne spoke hardly three words of French. She was soon on the best of terms with all the parlourmaids and cooks who borrowed her serials which she kept locked in a barded trunk. Nobody was so happily unconscious of her responsibilities. The expected child, the fact she had no home, not a room, not a lodging of any kind, did not matter to her. She was not even put out by the tumultuous scenes of my violent father who could not stand seeing her lolling about his one- roomed flat. Towards Easter Marie-Th&fcsc, who could not remember how long she had been pregnant and who had never consulted a mid- wife or a doctor, was taken with pains. She thought they were due to indigestion, but my mother who was less sentimental and more worldly wise had no doubt her sister was starting her labour. Drenching spring rain had been falling since morning and now the ground was so wet that my father had been sent home from work. He was laying bricks, and when the weather was bad the workmen were dismissed without pay till the sun came out again. When the men came home early in the morning they annoyed their wives by sitting around doing nothing, and so they preferred to stay amongst themselves, playing cards in a caffc. At night they arrived drunk and penniless. On this particular day my father had come straight home. He was sitting on a kitchen chair with a plank across his knees mending his hobnailed boots. Marie-Th&ise moaned and writhed as she turned the pages of her serial. Matilda, in front of a small table, her feet on a stool, her work pinned to her bosom, was passing, her needle with ever- increasing speed through the lace of a blouse, as if trying to compensate for the two idle people in the room. Her thin lips were sarcastically closed, for she was losing patience with her illusions her sister's airy nonchalance. My mother had no about own future, but she discussed it with nobody, for she was timid. 4 THE LITTLE MADELEINE My mother listened to my father knocking nails into his boot. She was aware that in an hour or two he would feel thirsty and go to the caffc. Her sister's moaning put her nerves on edge. She was angrily puzzled that Marie-Thfirfcse had become so popular in the cobbled streets of Montmartre along which, in the spite of her pregnancy, she tripped so carelessly, amusing to each neighbours, helping them with a smile, recounting what the other did, and prodigiously interested in the unhappy things that happened to a great number of unimportant young women. Marie-Th6rise was by definition an onlooker. Her immense consideration for pity for others was never lessened by any herself. When, tearfully, she brought back news of some seduced is she servant girl, Matilda would remark scathingly: 'Why any worse off than you?' * * 'Oh, but it *s not the same thing I cried Marie-Thdrftse. She ' hasn't a home or a penny in the world I My mother turned her head angrily. Maric-Th^rise was as naturally happy as my mother was, by experience and outlook, sad. If ever my aunt thought about herself it was in the light of a story-book heroine who, though having a spot of bad luck in the current chapter, would eventually, towards the end of the book, marry an earl for love. Matilda had no doubt that the morrow would be just as melancholy, if not more melancholy, than the other days. Was she not married to a man whose fate was to be always poor? Had she not a baby girl whose foster- mother kept on sending the bill? And how would she manage when the second child was born? Paris, beyond the slate roofs of Montmartre, glittered at the feet of happy Marie-Th6rise.