Harz and his host sat in leather chairs; Herr Paul's square back was
wedged into a cushion, his round legs crossed. Both were smoking, and
they eyed each other furtively, as men of different stamp do when first
thrown together. The young artist found his host extremely new and
disconcerting; in his presence he felt both shy and awkward. Herr Paul,
on the other hand, very much at ease, was thinking indolently:
'Good-looking young fellow—comes of the people, I expect, not at all the
manner of the world; wonder what he talks about.'
Presently noticing that Harz was looking at a photograph, he said: “Ah!
yes! that was a woman! They are not to be found in these days. She could
dance, the little Coralie! Did you ever see such arms? Confess that she
is beautiful, hein?”
“She has individuality,” said Harz. “A fine type!”
Herr Paul blew out a cloud of smoke.
“Yes,” he murmured, “she was fine all over!” He had dropped his
eyeglasses, and his full brown eyes, with little crow's-feet at the
corners, wandered from his visitor to his cigar.
'He'd be like a Satyr if he wasn't too clean,' thought Harz. 'Put vine
leaves in his hair, paint him asleep, with his hands crossed, so!'
“When I am told a person has individuality,” Herr Paul was saying in a
rich and husky voice, “I generally expect boots that bulge, an umbrella
of improper colour; I expect a creature of 'bad form' as they say in
England; who will shave some days and some days will not shave; who
sometimes smells of India-rubber, and sometimes does not smell, which is
discouraging!”
“You do not approve of individuality?” said Harz shortly.
“Not if it means doing, and thinking, as those who know better do not
do, or think.”
“And who are those who know better?”
“Ah! my dear, you are asking me a riddle? Well, then—Society, men of
birth, men of recognised position, men above eccentricity, in a word, of
reputation.”
Harz looked at him fixedly. “Men who haven't the courage of their own
ideas, not even the courage to smell of India-rubber; men who have no
desires, and so can spend all their time making themselves flat!”
Herr Paul drew out a red silk handkerchief and wiped his beard. “I
assure you, my dear,” he said, “it is easier to be flat; it is more
respectable to be flat. Himmel! why not, then, be flat?”
“Like any common fellow?”
“Certes; like any common fellow—like me, par exemple!” Herr Paul waved
his hand. When he exercised unusual tact, he always made use of a French
expression.
Harz flushed. Herr Paul followed up his victory. “Come, come!” he said.
“Pass me my men of repute! que diable! we are not anarchists.”
“Are you sure?” said Harz.
Herr Paul twisted his moustache. “I beg your pardon,” he said slowly.
But at this moment the door was opened; a rumbling voice remarked:
“Morning, Paul. Who's your visitor?” Harz saw a tall, bulky figure in
the doorway.
“Come in,” called out Herr Paul. “Let me present to you a new
acquaintance, an artist: Herr Harz—Mr. Nicholas Treffry. Psumm bumm! All
this introducing is dry work.” And going to the sideboard he poured out
three glasses of a light, foaming beer.
Mr. Treffry waved it from him: “Not for me,” he said: “Wish I could!
They won't let me look at it.” And walking over, to the window with
a heavy tread, which trembled like his voice, he sat down. There was
something in his gait like the movements of an elephant's hind legs. He
was very tall (it was said, with the customary exaggeration of family
tradition, that there never had been a male Treffry under six feet in
height), but now he stooped, and had grown stout. There was something at
once vast and unobtrusive about his personality.
He wore a loose brown velvet jacket, and waistcoat, cut to show a soft
frilled shirt and narrow black ribbon tie; a thin gold chain was looped
round his neck and fastened to his fob. His heavy cheeks had folds
in them like those in a bloodhound's face. He wore big, drooping,
yellow-grey moustaches, which he had a habit of sucking, and a goatee
beard. He had long loose ears that might almost have been said to gap.
On his head there was a soft black hat, large in the brim and low in
the crown. His grey eyes, heavy-lidded, twinkled under their bushy brows
with a queer, kind cynicism. As a young man he had sown many a wild
oat; but he had also worked and made money in business; he had, in fact,
burned the candle at both ends; but he had never been unready to do
his fellows a good turn. He had a passion for driving, and his reckless
method of pursuing this art had caused him to be nicknamed: “The
notorious Treffry.”
Once, when he was driving tandem down a hill with a loose rein, the
friend beside him had said: “For all the good you're doing with those
reins, Treffry, you might as well throw them on the horses' necks.”
“Just so,” Treffry had answered. At the bottom of the hill they had gone
over a wall into a potato patch. Treffry had broken several ribs; his
friend had gone unharmed.
He was a great sufferer now, but, constitutionally averse to being
pitied, he had a disconcerting way of humming, and this, together with
the shake in his voice, and his frequent use of peculiar phrases, made
the understanding of his speech depend at times on intuition rather than
intelligence.
The clock began to strike eleven. Harz muttered an excuse, shook hands
with his host, and bowing to his new acquaintance, went away. He caught
a glimpse of Greta's face against the window, and waved his hand to her.
In the road he came on Dawney, who was turning in between the poplars,
with thumbs as usual hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat.
“Hallo!” the latter said.
“Doctor!” Harz answered slyly; “the Fates outwitted me, it seems.”
“Serve you right,” said Dawney, “for your confounded egoism! Wait here
till I come out, I shan't be many minutes.”
But Harz went on his way. A cart drawn by cream-coloured oxen was
passing slowly towards the bridge. In front of the brushwood piled on
it two peasant girls were sitting with their feet on a mat of grass—the
picture of contentment.
“I'm wasting my time!” he thought. “I've done next to nothing in two
months. Better get back to London! That girl will never make a painter!”
She would never make a painter, but there was something in her that he
could not dismiss so rapidly. She was not exactly beautiful, but she was
sympathetic. The brow was pleasing, with dark-brown hair softly turned
back, and eyes so straight and shining. The two sisters were very
different! The little one was innocent, yet mysterious; the elder seemed
as clear as crystal!
He had entered the town, where the arcaded streets exuded their peculiar
pungent smell of cows and leather, wood-smoke, wine-casks, and drains.
The sound of rapid wheels over the stones made him turn his head. A
carriage drawn by red-roan horses was passing at a great pace. People
stared at it, standing still, and looking alarmed. It swung from side
to side and vanished round a corner. Harz saw Mr. Nicholas Treffry in
a long, whitish dust-coat; his Italian servant, perched behind, was
holding to the seat-rail, with a nervous grin on his dark face.
'Certainly,' Harz thought, 'there's no getting away from these people
this morning—they are everywhere.'
In his studio he began to sort his sketches, wash his brushes, and drag
out things he had accumulated during his two months' stay. He even began
to fold his blanket door. But suddenly he stopped. Those two girls!
Why not try? What a picture! The two heads, the sky, and leaves!
Begin to-morrow! Against that window—no, better at the Villa! Call the
picture—Spring...!