Part 12 (1/2)
Jane, however, was still neutral; she neither liked nor disliked him, and was perfectly indifferent as to whether he liked or disliked her.
And meanwhile, under Aunt Gertrude's guidance, he struggled, more manfully than successfully with the difficult art of baking cakes and bread. It cannot be said that he showed the slightest signs of the gift which Mr. Lambert believed that Johann Winkler had bequeathed to all his descendants; and so far not one of his attempts had been fit to go into the shop. His bread was as heavy as lead, his rolls were like sticks of dynamite, his cakes invariably scorched, or had too much baking soda in them.
Notwithstanding the fact that he really tried hard to learn, as much to please his aunt as for any other reason, and cheerfully rose before daylight on those wintry mornings to knead his dough, and see that the ovens were properly heated, Mr. Lambert chose to believe that his nephew was deliberately trying _not_ to be successful; and seeing in Paul's repeated failures a sly rebellion against his plans, he became more and more out of humour with the boy.
”See here, young man, how long is this business going to go on?” he demanded at length, losing patience altogether. ”All of us have got to earn our own salt. I'm not a rich man, and I simply can't afford to provide for a big, strapping boy who can't even learn a simple trade-”
”'A little patience, Uncle-'” quoted Paul serenely. Mr. Lambert flushed.
”You are impudent. Patience, indeed. I have been patient. But I feel that it is high time that you proved yourself in earnest, or at least told me frankly whether you intend to make yourself of some use or not.”
Paul thought for a moment, then he said slowly,
”Uncle, I _am_ trying to learn this confounded business. There is no use in getting angry with me-it isn't my fault if I don't succeed. Ask Aunt Gertrude whether I've worked hard or not. But I don't want to be a burden to you-you've been very kind, and I should hate to feel that you think I'm simply sponging on you. If you aren't satisfied with me, please just say so.”
”Oh, come now, my boy, there's nothing to take offense about,” said Mr.
Lambert hastily, changing his tactics immediately. ”It merely occurred to me that _you_ were not satisfied, and to urge you, if that is the case, to speak out frankly.”
Paul hesitated. During the last three or four weeks he had been repeatedly on the point of coming to an understanding with his uncle, and had put it off, certain that it would not be an ”understanding” at all, but simply a good old-fas.h.i.+oned row. There was not one chance in a hundred that Mr. Lambert could be made to understand his ideas or sympathize with them in the least, and Paul, financially, as well as in other ways, was too helpless to struggle just then. At the same time, it had occurred to him, that from one point of view, he was not acting fairly. He was ashamed of accepting Mr. Lambert's hospitality when, plainly, it was extended to him only on the condition that he conformed with Mr. Lambert's wishes, and when he had not the slightest intention of fulfilling his uncle's desires.
”It's a pretty shabby trick, and cowardly too, to live here until I get ready to do what I want, when all of them are depending on my being a fixture. It would be better to put the whole business up to uncle, and stand my ground openly. Then, if he wants to kick me out, he can.”
Paul reached this decision in the pause that followed Mr. Lambert's last remark, during which his uncle eyed him narrowly.
”I see that you are deliberating,” said Mr. Lambert, coldly. ”Again let me urge you to be frank.”
”Very well, sir. I will!” declared Paul impetuously. ”I'll be telling you very little more than I told you when I first came. I can never learn to be a baker. You can see that for yourself. And what's more, it isn't as if I hadn't tried. I don't want charity, and I thought that if for a while I could be of some help to Aunt Gertrude, it might be one way of paying for my board and lodging. And that's why-whatever you may think-I've done my best to learn how to make all this stuff. But it's no use. I never can be a baker, and _I don't want to be a baker_!”
”Ah!” said Mr. Lambert, leaning back in his chair. ”I thought that was how the land lay.” He was silent for a moment, and then, carefully plucking a thread from the b.u.t.tonhole in his lapel, he inquired.
”And what _do_ you want to be?”
”I want to be-” (”Here's where the music starts,” thought Paul), ”I want to be a painter.”
Mr. Lambert looked as if a cannon had suddenly been discharged in his ear. For fully thirty seconds he was quite speechless; then pulling himself together, he articulated,
”A _what_?”
”A painter,” Paul repeated.
”Do you mean a house-painter, or-” here Mr. Lambert raised his eyes to the ceiling as if invoking the mercy of the G.o.ds upon this benighted youth, ”or an _artist_?”
”I'm afraid I mean an artist, sir.”
”A person who,” Mr. Lambert went through a tragic pantomime of painting in the air, ”who paints _pictures_?”
”Yes,” said Paul briefly.
There was a long pause while Mr. Lambert struggled to a.s.similate this preposterous idea. At last a tolerant, half-pitying smile spread over his features.
”My dear boy, we all have foolish notions in our youth. You will get over this nonsense. Meanwhile, be so good as never to mention it to me again.” And without another word, he left the room.