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These two…thirds of a book were laid to rest by Edward Garnett's
dictum that its author was not sufficiently within Ferrand's skin；
and； struggling heavily with laziness and pride； he started afresh in
the skin of Shelton。 Three times be wrote that novel； and then it
was long in finding the eye of Sydney Pawling； who accepted it for
Heinemann's in 1904。 That was a period of ferment and transition
with me； a kind of long awakening to the home truths of social
existence and national character。 The liquor bubbled too furiously
for clear bottling。 And the book； after all； became but an
introduction to all those following novels which depictsomewhat
satiricallythe various sections of English 〃Society〃 with a more or
less capital 〃S。〃
Looking back on the long…stretched…out body of one's work； it is
interesting to mark the endless duel fought within a man between the
emotional and critical sides of his nature； first one； then the
other； getting the upper hand； and too seldom fusing till the result
has the mellowness of full achievement。 One can even tell the nature
of one's readers； by their preference for the work which reveals more
of this side than of that。 My early work was certainly more
emotional than critical。 But from 1901 came nine years when the
critical was； in the main； holding sway。 From 1910 to 1918 the
emotional again struggled for the upper hand； and from that time on
there seems to have been something of a 〃dead beat。〃 So the conflict
goes； by what mysterious tides promoted； I know not。
An author must ever wish to discover a hapless member of the Public
who； never yet having read a word of his writing； would submit to the
ordeal of reading him right through from beginning to end。 Probably
the effect could only be judged through an autopsy； but in the remote
case of survival； it would interest one so profoundly to see the
differences； if any； produced in that reader's character or outlook
over life。 This； however； is a consummation which will remain
devoutly to be wished； for there is a limit to human complaisance。
One will never know the exact measure of one's infecting power； or
whether； indeed； one is not just a long soporific。
A writer they say； should not favouritize among his creations； but
then a writer should not do so many things that be does。 This
writer； certainly； confesses to having favourites； and of his novels
so far be likes best： The Forsyte Series； 〃The Country House〃；
〃Fraternity〃； 〃The Dark Flower〃； and 〃Five Tales〃； believing these to
be the works which most fully achieve fusion of seer with thing seen；
most subtly disclose the individuality of their author； and best
reveal such of truth as has been vouchsafed to him。
JOHN GALSWORTHY。
TO
MY SISTER
BLANCHE LILIAN SAUTER
VILLA RUBEIN
I
Walking along the river wall at Botzen； Edmund Dawney said to Alois
Harz： 〃Would you care to know the family at that pink house； Villa
Rubein？〃
Harz answered with a smile：
〃Perhaps。〃
〃Come with me then this afternoon。〃
They had stopped before an old house with a blind； deserted look；
that stood by itself on the wall； Harz pushed the door open。
〃Come in； you don't want breakfast yet。 I'm going to paint the river
to…day。〃
He ran up the bare broad stairs； and Dawney followed leisurely； his
thumbs hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat； and his head thrown
back。
In the attic which filled the whole top story； Harz had pulled a
canvas to the window。 He was a young man of middle height； square
shouldered； active； with an angular face； high cheek…bones； and a
strong； sharp chin。 His eyes were piercing and steel…blue； his
eyebrows very flexible； nose long and thin with a high bridge； and
his dark； unparted hair fitted him like a cap。 His clothes looked as
if he never gave them a second thought。
This room； which served for studio； bedroom； and sitting…room； was
bare and dusty。 Below the window the river in spring flood rushed
down the valley； a stream； of molten bronze。 Harz dodged before the
canvas like a fencer finding his distance； Dawney took his seat on a
packingcase。
〃The snows have gone with a rush this year；〃 he drawled。 〃The Talfer
comes down brown； the Eisack comes down blue； they flow into the
Etsch and make it green； a parable of the Spring for you； my
painter。〃
Harz mixed his colours。
〃I've no time for parables；〃 he said； 〃no time for anything。 If I
could be guaranteed to live to ninety…nine； like Titianhe had a
chance。 Look at that poor fellow who was killed the other day！ All
that struggle； and thenjust at the turn！〃
He spoke English with a foreign accent； his voice was rather harsh；
but his smile very kindly。
Dawney lit a cigarette。
〃You painters；〃 he said； 〃are better off than most of us。 You can
strike out your own line。 Now if I choose to treat a case out of the
ordinary way and the patient dies； I'm ruined。〃
〃My dear Doctorif I don't paint what the public likes； I starve；
all the same I'm going to paint in my own way； in the end I shall
come out on top。〃
〃It pays to work in the groove； my friend； until you've made your
name； after thatdo what you like； they'll lick your boots all the
same。〃
〃Ah； you don't love your work。〃
Dawney answered slowly： 〃Never so happy as when my hands are full。
But I want to make money； to get known； to have a good time； good
cigars； good wine。 I hate discomfort。 No； my boy； I must work it on
the usual lines； I don't like it； but I must lump it。 One starts in
life with some notion of the idealit's gone by the board with me。
I've got to shove along until I've made my name； and then； my little
manthen〃
〃Then you'll be soft！ 〃You pay dearly for that first period！〃
〃Take my chance of that； there's no other way。〃
〃Make one！〃
〃Humph！〃
Harz poised his brush； as though it were a spear：
〃A man must do the best in him。 If he has to sufferlet him！〃
Dawney stretched his large soft body； a calculating look had come
into his eyes。
〃You're a tough little man！〃 he said。
〃I've had to be tough。〃
Dawney rose； tobacco smoke was wreathed round his unruffled hair。
〃Touching Villa Rubein；〃 he said； 〃shall I call for you？ It's a
mixed household； English mostlyvery decent people。〃
〃No； thank you。 I shall be painting all day。 Haven't time to know
the sort of people who expect one to change one's clothes。〃
〃As you like； ta…to！〃 And； puffing out his chest； Dawney vanished
through a blanket looped across the doorway。
Harz set a pot of coffee on a spirit…lamp； and cut himself some
bread。 Through the window the freshness of the morning came； the
scent of sap and blossom and young leaves； the scent of earth； and
the mountains freed from winter； the new flights and songs of birds；
all the odorous； enchanted； restless Sp