Of course it’s a long time ahead and I may be dead by then.”
“We’re a long-lived family and you’ll live as long as old Sibert.
Anyhow, there’ll be no harm in letting the rest of them know that it’s an understood thing that my boy should have my job when I’m through with it.”
In order to enlarge their children’s minds the Leslie Masons spent the holidays abroad, in winter at places where they ski and in summer at seaside resorts in the South of France; and once or twice with the same praiseworthy intention they made excursions to Italy and Holland.
When Charley left school his father decided that before going to Cambridge he should spend six months at Tours to learn French.
But the result of his sojourn in that agreeable town was unexpected and might very well have been disastrous, for when he came back he announced that he did not want to go to Cambridge, but to Paris, and that he wished to be a painter.
His parents were dumbfounded.
They loved art, they often said it was the most important thing in their lives; indeed Leslie, not averse at times from philosophical reflection, was inclined to think that it was art only that redeemed human existence from meaninglessness, and he had the greatest respect for the persons who produced it; but he had never envisaged the possibility that any member of his family, let alone his own son, should adopt a career that was uncertain, to some extent irregular, and in most cases far from lucrative.
Nor could Venetia forget the fate that had befallen her father.
It would be unjust to say that the Leslie Masons were put out because their son had taken their preoccupation with art more seriously than they intended; their preoccupation couldn’t have been more serious, but it was from the patron’s point of view; though no two people could have been more bohemian, they did have the Mason Estate behind them, and that, as anyone could see, must make a difference.
Their reaction to Charley’s declaration was quite definite, but they were aware that it would be difficult to put it in a way that wouldn’t make their attitude look a trifle insincere.
“I can’t think what put the idea into his head,” said Leslie, talking it over with his wife.
“Heredity, I suppose.
After all, my father was an artist.”
“A painter, darling.
He was a great gentleman and a wonderful raconteur, but no one in his senses could call him an artist.”
Venetia flushed and Leslie saw that he had hurt her feelings.
He hastened to make up for it.
“If he’s inherited a feeling for art it’s much more likely to be from my grandmother.
I know old Sibert used to say you didn’t know what tripe and onions were until you tasted hers.
When she gave up being a cook to become a wife of a market gardener a great artist was lost to the world.”
Venetia chuckled and forgave him.
They knew one another too well to have need to discuss their quandary.
Their children loved them and looked up to them; they were agreed that it would be a thousand pities by a false step to shake Charley’s belief in his parents’ wisdom and integrity.
The young are intolerant and when you talk common sense to them are only too apt to think you are an old humbug.
“I don’t think it would be wise to put one’s foot down too decidedly,” said Venetia.
“Opposition might only make him obstinate.”
“The situation’s delicate.
I don’t deny that for a moment.”
What made it more awkward was that Charley had brought back several canvases from Tours and when he had shown them they had expressed themselves in terms which it was difficult now to withdraw.
They had praised as fond parents rather than as connoisseurs.
“You might take Charley up to the box-room one morning and let him have a look at your father’s pictures.
Don’t make a point of it, you know, but let it seem accidental; and then when I get an opportunity I’ll have a talk with him.”
The opportunity came.
Leslie was in the sitting-room they had arranged for the children so that they might have a place of their own.
The reproductions of Gauguin and Van Gogh that had been in their nursery adorned the walls.
Charley was painting a bunch of mixed flowers in a green vase.
“I think we’d better have those pictures you brought back from France framed and put up instead of these reproductions.
Let’s have another look at them.”
There was one of three apples on a blue-and-white plate.
“I think it’s damned good,” said Leslie.
“I’ve seen hundreds of pictures of three apples on a blue-and-white plate and it’s well up to the average.”
He chuckled.
“Poor old Cezanne, I wonder what he’d say if he knew how many thousands of times people had painted that picture of his.”
There was another still life which represented a bottle of red wine, a packet of French tobacco in a blue wrapper, a pair of white gloves, a folded newspaper and a violin.
These objects were resting on a table covered with a cloth in green and white squares.
“Very good.
Very promising.”
“D’you really think so, daddy?”
“I do indeed.