The Hesitant Hero by Gilbert Morris

his for her, but it was her money and advice and help that had brought him this far and given him a second chance. So he ended the letter warmly and promised to write regularly.
    For the next week Tyler roamed the streets of Paris. There was so much to see, and he was determined to see it all. By the end of the week he had found that he could make himself understood to most people, though with some difficulty. Give me six months, and I’ll speak like a native. He did not make this boast aloud, but he did constantly try to improve his French.
    He spent several days going to the art museums and was stunned by the magnificence of the Louvre. Day after day he would stand before the masterpieces of the ages in awed silence. One day he studied a single painting by Rembrandt for almost two hours, unable to take his eyes off it.
    A guard had watched him for a long time and finally said, “I trust you’re not planning to steal it, monsieur? ”
    Tyler grinned. “No, though I’d like to.”
    “Many people would. Are you an artist yourself?”
    “Well, to tell the truth, I thought I was. But now looking at these masterpieces, I think I’m just a dabbler.”
    “You must take heart,” the guard said, smiling with encouragement. “All these artists, they had to begin somewhere.”
    “But all of them had genius in them. I’m not sure I have that.”
    The guard offered a few more encouraging words, and when Tyler finally moved on, he thought, Not everybody will be as encouraging as he was.
    ****
    The weather was not much different than it had been in New York. It snowed several nights in a row, but by midmorning the snow had been churned into a slush by the thousands of automobiles and trucks that plowed through the city. More than once, despite the cold weather, Tyler saw artists out braving the frigid air to paint on the street. He would inevitably stop and watch, and sometimes he would strike up a conversation. He found that some artists were almost sullen and would not return more than a monosyllable, but others were quite open with their views.
    One Thursday afternoon, he stopped near a young woman who was painting a picture of the Arc de Triomphe. He stoodoff to one side and did not bother her, and finally she turned and caught his eye.
    “L’aimez-vous?” she asked with a smile. She was a pretty girl who looked to be in her midtwenties with cheeks whitened by the cold.
    “Yes, I do like it,” he answered in French. “Have you been painting long?”
    “I can’t remember when I wasn’t painting. You are what, English?”
    “No, I’m an American. I was raised in Kenya but went to college in New York.”
    “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to America.”
    “Well, I always wanted to come to France,” he said, “and I made it. So maybe you’ll make it to America someday too.” He was starting to tell her about New York when a man wearing a uniform approached them and she introduced him as her husband.
    “Your wife paints better than most of the painters who are actually making a living at their work in America.”
    “That is good to hear,” the man replied.
    “You’re in the army, I see. What’s the situation?”
    A cloud crossed the soldier’s face. “It is not good. You have come to France at the wrong time, sir.”
    As always, Tyler got what information he could, which was not a great deal. The soldier and his wife were happy, but there was a cloud over them, he saw.
    ****
    The art institute that Tyler ended up enrolling in was not particularly well known. With so many art schools in Paris, he simply chose the one closest to his room in the heart of the city. It was housed in an ancient brick building with tall windows to allow as much light as possible. Tyler went there on the twentieth of January to enroll. He found himself speaking to a small man wearing a gray suit and a gleaming white shirt. His name was Dever, and he seemed preoccupied andirritable. He had Tyler fill out several papers, which he