Mrs.ZZ's Spherarium and Other Stories

By VIOLETTE JEAN

Synopsis of Mrs. ZZ's Spherarium, and Other Stories

 

Violette Jean's own choosing of some of her peculiar, unexpected stories, with no specific genre or theme. A window into her different moods and visions of life and the universe. Her five provocative short stories in English, as well as her other stories in French, will awaken your perceptions. A great introduction to Violette Jean's writings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CHRISTINE MYERS
• Release date: Aug 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201777692

VIOLETTE JEAN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: I am at the early stage of a writing career. Forever I have been an avid reader, and over the years, stories of my own, have popped into my head. Humbly, but with determination, I have resolved to transfer them on paper. Born in France, I have been from a very young age, fascinated by the English language. Years later, having lived in the USA, I have taken upon myself to write my stories in English, although I also write in French, when I feel the story benefits from it. It has been a challenge, but I have enjoyed every minute of it. At this point, I would be grateful to have the opinion of readers everywhere. As for what genre my writing is? I don't really know, since my stories can differ widely, but all have in common, usually, a specific time period, and death. But, this is why, I really need you, readers, to guide me in this endeavor, and I think we have some interest in common, a really good story.

Book preview

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright information

THE FANTASTIC JOURNEY OF EDITH VERNEY AND OTHER STORIES, Damn Bugs, Lunch, The Wanderer, Mrs ZZ’s Blue Spherarium

© Christine Myers, 2022 — No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

PUBLISHER: Please contact, Christine Myers at: [e-mail]

Table of Content

— The Fantastic Journey of Edith Verney

— Damn Bugs!

— Lunch

— The Wanderer

— Mrs. ZZ’s Blue Spherarium

The Fantastic Journey of Edith Verney

Iadmired the magnificent sunset which was painting Vadi Musa in vibrant colors, that Gauguin would have chosen"

As a proper young English Lady, I suppose I should not consign these remembrances to paper. Ah, but I will! If for no other reason that I am not tout à fait, altogether  a young English Lady. Young, I admit that with my 26 years, I shall still qualify for a few more years to this overvalued age group. When it comes to the Lady part... well, my dear departed mother was French, all the way to her long fine nose. She imparted on me, her only experiment at motherhood, a French education with the precepts she strongly believed in. Those of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, which she assumed also applied to womenfolk. Émilie, Millie as she was called by her artistic court, led a mostly Bohemian lifestyle, embellished with strong opinions and ideas, not always well received in that epoch socially compartmentalized. I thought of her as an extravagant, beautifully exotic Orient Express train in a rail yard laden with provincial commuter trains.

MY DEAR ENGLISH FATHER, Keith Verney, very much in love with my mother, let her be the wild exotic free bird, to whom he had opened and given his heart so willingly. Since our threesome lived in Paris, the English stifling class system really did not matter that much. The Parisians loved us. Our accent won their heart, and our eccentric lifestyle, because my father was English, excused most of our unusual social behavior. And what better town than Paris for us who existed for the arts. My mother was an incredibly passionate and fast reader. She also wrote all the time, an enormous amount of stories, never published, of course. But her undying creative mind fed my ever craving imagination. Being the head of our family, my father had to be pragmatic. He managed to earn quite a decent living as an illustrator for book publishers, revues of all sorts, and posters for advertising firms. Along the way, he befriended many great artists like the fabulous painter, illustrator Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen, creator of the poster for Le chat, the cabaret of Aristide Bruant, and Georges Goursat, a true Anglophile,who gave us his friendship without reserve, also the great Alphonse Mucha. I am proud to shout that both my parents were terribly talented. Suffice it to say that some of their talents were bestowed on me, their only child. Even if I could not rival their artistry, like my mother, I loved to read and became proficient at writing, and I did play the guitar rather well. Fortunately for us, this diverse trove of our cumulative talents opened many doors, sadly not of banks, but excitedly enough, of the literary and art salons of the day.

I MUST INCLUDE THE fact that my father and mother were by their very inquisitive nature, ardent travelers. Prior to finally settling in Paris, caused primarily by depletion of funds, they visited a whole lot of the world. At least as much as they could. Between a small inheritance for my father and a modest dowry for my mother, they were able to embark on a world tour wholly decried  by both families of the newly-wed couple. Regardless of the monetary consequence, my parents then discovered parts of India, Egypt, Iran, Iraq, Syria. They stayed as well for a spell in Tahiti, to see the island's beautiful land and women that so inspired Gauguin. Being quite frugal and resourceful, the adventurous couple lingered outside the supposedly civilized world for a remarkable two years. Once established in Paris, I was born, and a domestic adventure befell my novice parents.

FOLLOWING A LOVELY childhood, then adolescence centered on the arts, I worked for a literary agent, reading and editing manuscripts while studying music. More precisely, pursuing the intricacy of playing guitar, but also learning the arduous skill of composing. In charming and delightful churches, I played some recitals for charities. At the literary salons where my parents were welcomed, I was often invited to play to accompany a poet's reading or a singer. Alas, when my beloved mother passed away, so young, at the powerful claws of pneumonia, I became inconsolable, devoid of spirit, and terribly lonely. My bereaved father struggled to go on without his wild and passionate lovebird. He then suggested that I go on a trip, perhaps in the Mid-East, as he and my mother had. His advice fell on deaf ears and an empty heart with no wants or desire.

HOWEVER, FATE, WHICH my mother firmly believed in, saw to it that my life would be altered and that, indeed, I would be traveling. The publishing house, Jameson & Courbet, where I returned to work after a brief time off following my mother's death, had collected a fair amount of manuscripts in the meantime. On the first morning of my comeback, I discovered my desk overflowing with a mountain of eager authors' work. Mainly these were of English novelists. After all, our agency was reputed for placing UK literary newcomers on the Parisian market. In my childhood, I grew up within both languages. The publishing house had then eagerly admitted me, a woman, in their bilingual organization. Mustering my will, after a time rummaging through the piles of works submitted, I chose a dozen manuscripts. And as fate would have it, I began leafing through one obviously written under a pseudonym. It was rather ironic, I thought, for a person using a train full of words to select Monosyllaba as a pen name, meaning: a word of one syllable. But the title retained my attention: Snow upon the Desert.

WHILE A LIGHT DRIZZLE hit the office window, I pushed my spine into the red velvet back of the chair and began reading the novel I had selected. A mere 15 minutes later, I had forgotten I was in gray Paris. Instead, my being, via my mind's ability to transcend time and space, carried me off to sun-drenched Cairo, Egypt. Soon, I was following the romanticized adventures of a couple in love, set in the land of the pharaohs. As I read, it became apparent to me that the author had to be a woman. In a way, it made the story-line written by my sex more appealing to me, even though the tale was rather banal. Yet the style and prose were distinct, and in my view, superior to a lot of dribble and verbiage I had encountered since reading and editing. I believe it had to do with the fact that almost all authors published or not were males. Assuredly, the Lady author needed help with some technique as simple to fix as her spelling, for instance, and grammatical errors and perhaps the use of a good thesaurus. Otherwise, the quality of prose and its clarity, without excessive convolutions, made it a delightfully refreshing read. All these remarks were noted on my assessment report attached to the manuscript of Monosyllaba.

AT THE VERY LEAST, this novel had shaken away my moroseness while opening my mind toward a new view of life, at least for a while. For lately, I went through the days like an automaton with no purpose or desire, just as a mule would. This incredibly dull and aimless behavior would have been unacceptable had my mother been around. It would have enraged her. Perhaps my father was right in counseling that I explore other lands and cultures. Nothing like the present, I told myself, and within days, my bedroom and the parlor became bibliothèques. Books, maps, trains and ferries schedules, and itineraries were scattered about these rooms. Travel was in the air!

WANTING TO PLEASE MY father, I postponed my departure for after the holidays, somewhere in mid-January. We were, after all, near the end of November. Exploring the Mid-East in winter seemed ideal since I imagined these countries under the sun’s watch most of the year. But my father, ever so practical, reminded me that firstly, I would have to get there. Then he emphasized that it involved crossing some countries, not at all sunbathed, but rather hiding under a blanket of snow and ice. You will have to contend with the many travel hazards, besides the foul weather, but also with transportation very much unpredictable, he ended with malice. However, in my heart, I just knew I wouldn’t have the patience to wait for spring. For very much like my dear Millie, I was impulsive, and as soon as I had made up my mind, whatever it was, had to be fulfilled at once, regardless.

USUALLY, WITH MY FATHER, we spent the holidays, well, Christmas and the New Year, one year in England and the following in France and so on, to accommodate both our families. This particular year, scheduled for the English family, was to be different for two reasons. Firstly, with my mother recently deceased, with my father, we agreed that the proper way was to partake in the so-called festivities with Millie’s kin. If you added my impending travels at mid-month, to begin in Paris, it rather became logical that I should be in France rather than the UK for the Holidays.

IN ANY CASE, OUR ENGLISH side of the family kept our postman busy. They sent us parcels upon parcels of assorted victuals as if not for them, my dad and I should starve. Among the offerings, we received the inevitable Christmas pudding cake, shortbread cookies, mince pies, and traditional  Christmas crackers, the British version of the French papillotes. Both deliver a snap or cracking sound like a firecracker when you open them. They are a favorite of children, of course. On the French side, it was more exciting and gourmet. We spent Christmas eve with my mom’s parents and her friends. The food and wine, as always, were exquisite. For the new year, we celebrated with their good friends, the artists, and bohemians, and it was an extravagant, joyful soiree. On recollecting former new years celebrations, I noticed that these festive evenings were unfailingly marked with a sudden virulent and icy meteorology, whether we were in Paris or London. As usual, I gained weight, just like any previous end-of-year festivities. Maybe, I think, it is my body doing its biological thing, like the bears who plump up for the winter. Yes, I like this theory.

AT LAST, I AM ON MY way. Shortly after the new year, a frigid snowy blizzard eve and day, per tradition, I begin to assemble things for my excursion. With my father’s help, I drew an itinerary that would take me through Italy, a country that, in my mind, represented the cradle of the arts. Then on to South-Eastern regions like Yugoslavia and Bulgaria, recommended by my mother’s Bohemians’ fellowship. After which, I shall stop in Constantinople, Turkey. I so dreamed of seeing the Bosporus strait. I should enjoy a carefree traversal of these waters, which cut through two continents. From there, I thought I would follow the traces of the famous discoverer of the remarkable ancient city of Petra. I must confess that my route to Petra will be quite direct, compared to Johann Ludwig Burckhardt,  traveling from Damascus, Syria, and Cairo, Egypt. His expedition, as I read, was extremely dangerous. He had to disguise himself as an Arab pilgrim, who had promised to sacrifice a goat somewhere near the ancient city, where a grave marked the last repose of Moses’ brother, Aaron. Dear Ludwig had paved the way for me, and I should enjoy a worry free-train ride across these mighty antique cities leading to the centuries old days of Syria.

THE VERY NEXT DAY FOLLOWING the 15 of January, I stood, excited, although equally jittery, on the platform of the gare de l’Est. An eager porter lent me a hand with my baggage, which consisted of two valises, and a steamer bag that I shall keep with me in the wagon. My dear dad, in all his splendor, gave me last minute advice which I am sure will escape me at the exact time I should need it. But how dear of him to be so concerned about his little girl. I do believe he was tempted to tag along, but his affairs and the fact that this trip was a way to prove my worthiness, rendered it unsuitable. The train I was boarding belonged to the international section of the railway, and I would enjoy first-class accommodations. It was a requisite of my father that did not offer a rebuttal. The fare was far more economical than the Orient Express. Although, I would catch the luxury train in Trieste, Italy. Again it was my father’s wish, insisting that my safety would increase considerably aboard the famous wagons. An important fact, since I was a young lady traveling alone in foreign lands. Nations that were quite rustic, as my father delicately called any countries outside England and France  — as long as you stayed in Paris — I was always amused at the disparity of these views between him and my mother, the gypsy who opened herself so freely to anyone.

KISSES AND HUGS WERE both our last contact as I installed myself in the seat by the window facing forward. For the present, the compartment belonged to me. I am, however, confident it will not remain so for long. Large amounts of steam were escaping near the locomotive and blasting the quay as my father stepped off the train. I could smell the peculiar odor relating to the many railway travels I had already taken. That of coal and machine oil mingling with the damp cold air of a winter Parisian day.  A few minutes before departure, I watched my dear father’s tall and erect back disappear in the crowd now coming in. My gaze was then diverted by a bright blue plume fluttering under the window. Before long, the woman to whom the feather belonged stepped in the compartment wearing a bright open smile. The lady sat across from me, searching in her bag, so I had time to peek at her appearance. She was rather pleasing for her age, in her early fifties, I should say. Her stout body of average height had extraordinary short booted feet. Her face, wide and long with a forceful nose was softened by the smile I just described. Add large expressive and intelligent eyes and a mass of downy white hair barely contained in the feathered hat, and you have the lively, benevolent grandmother everyone wishes for.

IT WAS UNCOMPLICATED to befriend her, and she made for an agreeable companion. Readily, I came to appreciate this mature, very independent woman who was as highly pragmatic as I was. Despite our age difference, we both embraced the use of a long, three-quarter tweed coat with large pockets, and trousers. Wearing them, at this epoch, for the female sex was a striking violation of the women's apparel code. But