And he was tired, tired in body and in soul. Both in his life and in his work he had had to conquer a convention in order to keep his footing in the world of his desire. Just as he had only learned the Detmold style of drawing by a supreme effort of will, so also by a tremendous effort he had learned the rudiments of manners and polite conversation. He had had to overcome his tendency to fall violently in love with every charming person, male or female, he met, and to regard with an aversion equally violent those in whom he found no charm. Such charm must for him be genuine and not a matter of tricks, and for this reason he had regarded every person whom he thought of as old with dislike. For him anybody above twenty-five was “old.” He still thought he would be made or marred by the time he was twenty-three, but that age seemed immeasurably far off. Long before then, like a thunderbolt, his full genius would descend upon him and all the world would know his name. He was almost innocent of conceit in this. Such, he believed, was the history of genius, and so far nothing had happened to deny his inward consciousness of his rarity. Relieve the pressure of circumstance and he soared upwards. . . . There was a queer, uncomfortable pleasure in such thoughts and dreams and in imagining a fatality that should drag him down and down to Issy’s level and lower. There was a sickening fascination in picturing to himself a descent as swift and irresistible as his upward flight. Yet dreary were the hours of waiting for the impetus that had once or twice so freely and so strongly moved in him. Sick with waiting, he would work in a fury to master trick after trick and difficulty after difficulty in painting, so as to be ready when the time came. All the cunning and wariness of his race welled up in him as he prepared deliberately, slowly, patiently for his opportunity.
One afternoon, as Golda was sleeping in her kitchen, she was awakened by a knock at the door. Going to open it, she found Hetty Finch waiting there, neatly clad in a brown tailor-made coat and skirt, very smart, with a trim little feathered hat on her head. Golda’s thoughts flew to Mendel, and her first inclination was to slam the door in Hetty’s face, but, remembering that the boy was out, she admitted her.
Hetty followed Golda into the kitchen and stood looking round it with obvious disappointment. She had not imagined the Kühlers to be so poor.
“I promised Ma I would call,” she said, taking the chair which Golda dusted for her.
“And how is your Ma?” asked Golda.
“She’s given up the house and gone into a hotel as manageress,” replied Hetty, lying as usual, for her mother had been sold up and had taken a place as barmaid in a tavern. “And I’ve come to London to earn my living. Ma gave me fourteen shillings, and that was all she could do for me. Still, I’m off her hands now.”
Golda asked her what she was going to do, and she said she thought of going into service until she had had a look round. Where was she living? She had taken a room with some friends, lodgers of Ma’s, off Stepney Green.
Conversation was lifeless and desultory until Issy came into the room, when she brightened up, but he was overcome with his old terror of the girl and soon hurried away. Then she noticed the pictures on the wall and asked if they were Mendel’s. Golda refused flatly to talk about them, but Hetty persisted and would talk of nothing else. Jacob came in and she made him talk about Mendel, and she made herself so charming to him and flattered his simple vanity so grossly that presently Golda was staggered by the sight of him making tea with his own hands and pouring it out for the visitor.
“Yes,” said Jacob, “the boy did all those before he was fourteen. He will get on, that boy. He is bound to get on, but I shall not live to see him in his glory.”