Villa Rubein, and Other Stories. Galsworthy John

it lives upon the weak.”

      “Bah!” Herr Paul chimed in; “the weak goes to the wall; that is as certain as that you and I are here.”

      “Let them fall against the wall,” cried Harz; “don’t push them there…”

      Greta reappeared, walking pensively in the rain.

      “Bino,” she said, sighing, “has eaten too much. I remember now, I did feed them before. Must we do the history, Chris?”

      “Of course!”

      Greta opened her book, and put a finger in the page. “Herr Harz is very kind to me,” she said. “Yesterday he brought a bird which had come into his studio with a hurt wing; he brought it very gently in his handkerchief – he is very kind, the bird was not even frightened of him. You did not know about that, Chris?”

      Chris flushed a little, and said in a hurt voice

      “I don’t see what it has to – do with me.”

      “No,” assented Greta.

      Christian’s colour deepened. “Go on with your history, Greta.”

      “Only,” pursued Greta, “that he always tells you all about things, Chris.”

      “He doesn’t! How can you say that!”

      “I think he does, and it is because you do not make him angry. It is very easy to make him angry; you have only to think differently, and he shall be angry at once.”

      “You are a little cat!” said Christian; “it isn’t true, at all. He hates shams, and can’t bear meanness; and it is mean to cover up dislikes and pretend that you agree with people.”

      “Papa says that he thinks too much about himself.”

      “Father!” began Christian hotly; biting her lips she stopped, and turned her wrathful eyes on Greta.

      “You do not always show your dislikes, Chris.”

      “I? What has that to do with it? Because one is a coward that doesn’t make it any better, does it?”

      “I think that he has a great many dislikes,” murmured Greta.

      “I wish you would attend to your own faults, and not pry into other people’s,” and pushing the book aside, Christian gazed in front of her.

      Some minutes passed, then Greta leaning over, rubbed a cheek against her shoulder.

      “I am very sorry, Chris – I only wanted to be talking. Shall I read some history?”

      “Yes,” said Christian coldly.

      “Are you angry with me, Chris?”

      There was no answer. The lingering raindrops pattered down on the roof. Greta pulled at her sister’s sleeve.

      “Look, Chris!” she said. “There is Herr Harz!”

      Christian looked up, dropped her eyes again, and said: “Will you go on with the history, Greta?”

      Greta sighed.

      “Yes, I will – but, oh! Chris, there is the luncheon gong!” and she meekly closed the book.

      During the following weeks there was a “sitting” nearly every afternoon. Miss Naylor usually attended them; the little lady was, to a certain extent, carried past objection. She had begun to take an interest in the picture, and to watch the process out of the corner of her eye; in the depths of her dear mind, however, she never quite got used to the vanity and waste of time; her lips would move and her knitting-needles click in suppressed remonstrances.

      What Harz did fast he did best; if he had leisure he “saw too much,” loving his work so passionately that he could never tell exactly when to stop. He hated to lay things aside, always thinking: “I can get it better.” Greta was finished, but with Christian, try as he would, he was not satisfied; from day to day her face seemed to him to change, as if her soul were growing.

      There were things too in her eyes that he could neither read nor reproduce.

      Dawney would often stroll out to them after his daily visit, and lying on the grass, his arms crossed behind his head, and a big cigar between his lips, would gently banter everybody. Tea came at five o’clock, and then Mrs. Decie appeared armed with a magazine or novel, for she was proud of her literary knowledge. The sitting was suspended; Harz, with a cigarette, would move between the table and the picture, drinking his tea, putting a touch in here and there; he never sat down till it was all over for the day. During these “rests” there was talk, usually ending in discussion. Mrs. Decie was happiest in conversations of a literary order, making frequent use of such expressions as: “After all, it produces an illusion – does anything else matter?” “Rather a poseur, is he not?” “A question, that, of temperament,” or “A matter of the definition of words”; and other charming generalities, which sound well, and seem to go far, and are pleasingly irrefutable. Sometimes the discussion turned on Art – on points of colour or technique; whether realism was quite justified; and should we be pre-Raphaelites? When these discussions started, Christian’s eyes would grow bigger and clearer, with a sort of shining reasonableness; as though they were trying to see into the depths. And Harz would stare at them. But the look in those eyes eluded him, as if they had no more meaning than Mrs. Decie’s, which, with their pale, watchful smile, always seemed saying: “Come, let us take a little intellectual exercise.”

      Greta, pulling Scruff’s ears, would gaze up at the speakers; when the talk was over, she always shook herself. But if no one came to the “sittings,” there would sometimes be very earnest, quick talk, sometimes long silences.

      One day Christian said: “What is your religion?”

      Harz finished the touch he was putting on the canvas, before he answered: “Roman Catholic, I suppose; I was baptised in that Church.”

      “I didn’t mean that. Do you believe in a future life?”

      “Christian,” murmured Greta, who was plaiting blades of grass, “shall always want to know what people think about a future life; that is so funny!”

      “How can I tell?” said Harz; “I’ve never really thought of it – never had the time.”

      “How can you help thinking?” Christian said: “I have to – it seems to me so awful that we might come to an end.”

      She closed her book, and it slipped off her lap. She went on: “There must be a future life, we’re so incomplete. What’s the good of your work, for instance? What’s the use of developing if you have to stop?”

      “I don’t know,” answered Harz. “I don’t much care. All I know is, I’ve got to work.”

      “But why?”

      “For happiness – the real happiness is fighting – the rest is nothing. If you have finished a thing, does it ever satisfy you? You look forward to the next thing at once; to wait is wretched!”

      Christian clasped her hands behind her neck; sunlight flickered through the leaves on to the bosom of her dress.

      “Ah! Stay like that!” cried Harz.

      She let her eyes rest on his face, swinging her foot a little.

      “You work because you must; but that’s not enough. Why do you feel you must? I want to know what’s behind. When I was travelling with Aunt Constance the winter before last we often talked – I’ve heard her discuss it with her friends. She says we move in circles till we reach Nirvana. But last winter I found I couldn’t talk to her; it seemed as if she never really meant anything. Then I started reading – Kant and Hegel – ”

      “Ah!” put in Harz, “if they would teach me to draw better, or to see a new colour in a flower, or an expression in a face, I would read them all.”

      Christian leaned forward: “It must be right to get as near truth as possible; every step gained is something. You believe in truth; truth is the same as beauty – that was what you said – you try to paint the truth, you always see the beauty. But how can