begin to work more on our own—or not, as the case may be. But I may not have much encouragement in corruption. Everyone at the École, who will be my comrades, will be people like myself.”
“Which means?”
“Earnest, hardworking, and dull,” he said. “We cannot help it. Dissipation is not on the curriculum.”
“In that case,” the father said, “you will miss what is most charming and educational about Rome. We must come and rescue you. I have to come to Italy at least once a year, and I offer you an exchange. You show me Rome, which you will no doubt know better than I in a short while, and I will show you the Romans. They, at least, I know well.”
“I accept with great pleasure,” Julien replied happily. “And you must keep your word. I shall now be looking forward to your arrival and will be greatly disappointed if I don’t hear from you. Might I ask why you come to Italy?”
After near an hour of conversation, this was the first initiative he had taken, the first time he ventured to move the conversation away from himself, partly aware that he must be seeming terribly self-centered, but more because the two people were making him relax in their company.
But the father waved his hand. “Neither important nor interesting,” he said. “But merely work. It will take a generation to replace what was destroyed in a few years. Perhaps longer, as the politicians seem determined to waste as much time and money as possible. It is my job to make sure they have no excuse but their own lassitude. But it is not exciting, not in comparison to what you do.”
Was that a joke at his expense? Julien thought so, but Julia translated for him. “Father is a scholar manqué, ” she said gently. “He always wanted to write books. But he became rich instead, so is not allowed.”
“And you, Mademoiselle?”
“She is an artist,” Bronsen said, smiling at him.
“Are you really?” He addressed his question back to her, and noted that she was scrutinizing him carefully as he spoke. False admiration? Disdain for the rich hobbyist of no talent? Incomprehension and slight disapproval of the possible bohemian? “What sort of artist?”
“A painter,” she said, but gave no more away.
“A good one?” He persisted.
Again, her father answered for her. “Yes, she is. She is exceptional.”
Julien’s smile, understanding but with too much insight, prompted her to respond a little more fully. “No, I am not,” she said. “Not yet.” She said it with such care that Julien, who could easily have changed the subject then to pursue matters less obviously sensitive, was minded to probe further.
“I sense a little divergence of opinion here.”
“Father speaks from hope. I speak from knowledge. I am not being self-deprecating. I have the ability to be a good painter. More than that, perhaps. But I am a long way from that point yet.”
“And what is required? What is missing?”
“Work,” she said. “Labor. The sweat of my brow. A great painting is not genius with a paintbrush. It’s years of concentrated effort. A journey without maps, with only a faint idea where you are heading.”
“She is being disingenuous,” Bronsen put in with a smile, patting her affectionately on the shoulder. “You should not be fooled by her modesty. She has none, in fact. She is perfectly aware of her abilities. As are the committee at the Salon d’Automne, which chose three of her pictures for hanging last year.”
“Now it is my turn to congratulate you. Although without seeing something for myself, I will have to suspend judgment,” Julien said. “I would like to see what you do. If you have no objection. Although I warn you in advance that my opinions are worthless.”
Julia gazed at him carefully. “We’ll see. Perhaps.”
ABOUT HALF WAY through the cruise, Julien began talking amiably and purposelessly to a middle-aged man—a jovial, good-natured, kindly fellow, the sort who is instantly likeable. They
“Which means?”
“Earnest, hardworking, and dull,” he said. “We cannot help it. Dissipation is not on the curriculum.”
“In that case,” the father said, “you will miss what is most charming and educational about Rome. We must come and rescue you. I have to come to Italy at least once a year, and I offer you an exchange. You show me Rome, which you will no doubt know better than I in a short while, and I will show you the Romans. They, at least, I know well.”
“I accept with great pleasure,” Julien replied happily. “And you must keep your word. I shall now be looking forward to your arrival and will be greatly disappointed if I don’t hear from you. Might I ask why you come to Italy?”
After near an hour of conversation, this was the first initiative he had taken, the first time he ventured to move the conversation away from himself, partly aware that he must be seeming terribly self-centered, but more because the two people were making him relax in their company.
But the father waved his hand. “Neither important nor interesting,” he said. “But merely work. It will take a generation to replace what was destroyed in a few years. Perhaps longer, as the politicians seem determined to waste as much time and money as possible. It is my job to make sure they have no excuse but their own lassitude. But it is not exciting, not in comparison to what you do.”
Was that a joke at his expense? Julien thought so, but Julia translated for him. “Father is a scholar manqué, ” she said gently. “He always wanted to write books. But he became rich instead, so is not allowed.”
“And you, Mademoiselle?”
“She is an artist,” Bronsen said, smiling at him.
“Are you really?” He addressed his question back to her, and noted that she was scrutinizing him carefully as he spoke. False admiration? Disdain for the rich hobbyist of no talent? Incomprehension and slight disapproval of the possible bohemian? “What sort of artist?”
“A painter,” she said, but gave no more away.
“A good one?” He persisted.
Again, her father answered for her. “Yes, she is. She is exceptional.”
Julien’s smile, understanding but with too much insight, prompted her to respond a little more fully. “No, I am not,” she said. “Not yet.” She said it with such care that Julien, who could easily have changed the subject then to pursue matters less obviously sensitive, was minded to probe further.
“I sense a little divergence of opinion here.”
“Father speaks from hope. I speak from knowledge. I am not being self-deprecating. I have the ability to be a good painter. More than that, perhaps. But I am a long way from that point yet.”
“And what is required? What is missing?”
“Work,” she said. “Labor. The sweat of my brow. A great painting is not genius with a paintbrush. It’s years of concentrated effort. A journey without maps, with only a faint idea where you are heading.”
“She is being disingenuous,” Bronsen put in with a smile, patting her affectionately on the shoulder. “You should not be fooled by her modesty. She has none, in fact. She is perfectly aware of her abilities. As are the committee at the Salon d’Automne, which chose three of her pictures for hanging last year.”
“Now it is my turn to congratulate you. Although without seeing something for myself, I will have to suspend judgment,” Julien said. “I would like to see what you do. If you have no objection. Although I warn you in advance that my opinions are worthless.”
Julia gazed at him carefully. “We’ll see. Perhaps.”
ABOUT HALF WAY through the cruise, Julien began talking amiably and purposelessly to a middle-aged man—a jovial, good-natured, kindly fellow, the sort who is instantly likeable. They
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