"Furthermore," Ottillie added, "one more artist couldn't make much difference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages."
Martin couldn't hold back his question. "What was I, actually, in that other time?"
There was a chilly silence.
"Let's not talk about it, dear," Lalage finally said. "Let's just be thankful we've saved you from that!"
So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competent second-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve first rank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almost purely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel was fear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor and walk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him for the sake of an ideal.
But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were pretty pictures.
Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call the descendants cousin—next assumed guardianship. Ives took his responsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arranged to have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings received critical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modest sale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were not interested.
"Takes time," Ives tried to reassure him. "One day they'll be buying your pictures, Martin. Wait and see."
Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martin as an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other young man failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was a change of air and scenery.