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  "They're not ripe yet, you will have to wait a few days more," he heard the mother say.

  The boy's reply was a twittering laugh. For a fragile, fleeting moment the peaceful green garden and the soft resonance of this childlike conversation, muffled by the breeze, seemed in the expectant summer stillness to come to Veraguth from the distant garden of his own childhood. He stepped up to the hedge and peered through the leaves into the garden, where his wife in a morning dress stood on the sunny path, holding a pair of flower shears in her hand and on her arm a delicate brown basket. She was hardly twenty paces from the hedge.

  The painter watched her for a moment. The tall figure was bending over the flowers; her grave, disillusioned face was entirely shaded by a large, limp straw hat.

  "What are those flowers called?" asked Pierre. The light played over his brown hair, his bare legs stood thin and sunburnt in the bright glow, and when he bent down, his loose-fitting blouse revealed the white skin of his back below his deeply tanned neck.

  "Carnations," said the mother.

  "Oh, I know that," said Pierre. "I want to know what the bees say to them. They must have a name in the bee language too!"

  "Of course, but we can't know it, only the bees know. Perhaps they call them honey flowers."

  Pierre thought it over.

  "That's no good," he finally decided. "They find just as much honey in clover or nasturtiums; they can't have the same name for all the flowers."

  The boy was attentively watching a bee as it flew around the calyx of a carnation, stopped in mid-air with buzzing wings, and then hungrily penetrated the rosy hollow.

  "Honey flowers!" he said contemptuously, and fell silent. He had discovered long ago that the prettiest and most interesting things are the very ones that cannot be known or explained.

  Veraguth stood behind the hedge and listened; he observed the calm earnest face of his wife and the lovely, prematurely fragile face of his darling, and his heart turned to stone at the thought of the summers when his first son was still such a child. He had lost him, and his mother as well. But this child he would not lose, no no. Like a thief behind his hedge he would spy on him, he would lure him and win him, and if this boy should also turn away from him, he had no desire to live.

  Soundlessly he moved off over the grassy path and withdrew beneath the trees.

  Loafing is not for me, he thought irritably, and hardened himself. He went back to his painting and indeed, overcoming his disinclination and surrendering to old habit, he recaptured the industrious tension which tolerates no digressions and concentrates all our energies on the work in hand.

  He was expected for lunch at the manor house, and at the approach of noon he dressed carefully. Shaved, brushed, and clad in a blue summer suit, he looked perhaps not younger but fresher and more resilient than in his shabby studio clothes. He reached for his straw hat and was about to open the door when it opened toward him and Pierre came in.

  "How are you, Pierre? Was your teacher nice?"

  "Oh yes, only he's so boring. When he tells a story it's not for the pleasure, it's just another lesson, and the end is always that good children must do like this or like that. --Have you been painting, Papa?"

  "Yes, working on those fishes. It's almost finished, you may see it tomorrow."

  He took the boy's hand and went out with him. Nothing in the world so soothed him or touched the submerged kindness and tenderness in him as to walk beside the boy, to adjust his pace to his short steps, and to feel the child's light trusting hand in his own.

  As they left the park and started across the meadow beneath the spindly drooping birches, the boy looked around and asked: "Papa, are butterflies afraid of you?"

  "Why? I don't think so. One sat down on my finger a little while ago."

  "Yes, but there aren't any here now. Sometimes when I go over to see you by myself and I come this way, there are always lots and lots of butterflies on the path, and they're called blues, I know that, and they know me and they like me, they always fly around right close to me. Is it possible to feed butterflies?"

  "Indeed it is, we must try it very soon. You put a drop of honey on your hand and hold it out very quietly until the butterflies come and drink it."

  "Wonderful, Papa, we'll try. Won't you tell Mama she has to give me a little honey? Then she'll know I really need it and it's not just foolishness."

  Pierre ran ahead through the open gate and the broad hallway; blinded by the sunlight, his father was still looking for the hatrack in the half light, and groping for the dining-room door, long after the boy was inside, pressing his plea on his mother.

  The painter entered and held out his hand to his wife. She was somewhat taller than he, strong and fit, but without youth, and though she had ceased to love her husband she still regarded the loss of his affection as a sadly incomprehensible and undeserved misfortune.

  "We can eat right away," she said in her even voice. "Pierre, go and wash your hands."

  "I have news," said the painter, handing her his friend's letter. "Otto is coming soon, for a long stay I hope. You don't mind?"

  "Herr Burkhardt can have the two downstairs rooms, then no one will disturb him and he will be able to go in and out as he pleases."

  "Yes, that will be fine."

  Hesitantly, she said: "I thought he wasn't coming until much later."

  "He set out sooner than he had expected. I knew nothing myself until today. Well, so much the better."

  "Now he will be here at the same time as Albert."

  At the mention of his son's name, Veraguth's face lost its faint glow of pleasure and his voice grew cold.

  "Albert?" he exclaimed irritably. "He was supposed to go to the Tyrol with his friend."

  "I didn't want to tell you any sooner than necessary. His friend was invited to visit relatives and gave up the walking trip. Albert will be coming as soon as his vacation starts."

  "And stay here the whole time?"

  "I believe so. I could travel with him for a few weeks, but that would be inconvenient for you."

  "Why? Pierre would come to live with me in the studio."

  "Please don't begin that again. You know I can't leave Pierre here alone."

  The painter grew angry. "Alone!" he cried bitterly. "He's not alone when he's with me."

  "I can't leave him here and I don't wish to. There's no point in arguing about it any more."

  "I see. You don't wish to."

  He fell silent, for Pierre had come back, and they sat down to table. The boy sat between his estranged parents, both of whom served him and entertained him as he was used to having them do. His father tried to prolong the meal as much as possible, because after lunch the boy stayed with his mother and it was doubtful whether he would come to the studio again that day.

  Chapter Two

  ROBERT WAS IN THE SMALL WASHROOM next to the studio, busy washing a palette and a bundle of brushes. Little Pierre appeared in the open doorway. He stopped still and watched.

  "That's messy work," he said after a while. "Painting is all very well, but I'd never want to be a painter."

  "Maybe you ought to think it over," said Robert. "With such a famous painter for a father."

  "No," said the boy decisively, "it's not for me. Always filthy and always such a strong smell of paint. I like to smell just a bit of it, on a new picture, for instance, when it's hanging in a room and there's only a tiny smell of paint; but in the studio it's too much, I couldn't stand it, it would give me a headache."

  The servant looked at the child searchingly. He ought really to have given this spoiled child a good lecture long ago, there was much to find fault with. But when Pierre was there in front of him and he looked into his face, it was impossible. His face was so fresh and pretty and grave; everything about him seemed to be just right, and just this streak of the blase, this arrogance or precocity, was strangely becoming to him.

  "What would you actually like to be, my boy?" Robert asked with some severity.
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  Pierre looked down and reflected. "Oh, I really don't want to be anything special, you know. I only wish I were through with school. In the summer I'd just like to wear all white clothes, white shoes too, and never have the tiniest spot on them."

  "I see, I see," said Robert reproachfully. "That's what you say now. But when you were out with us the other day, all of a sudden your white clothes were full of cherry stains and grass stains, and you'd lost your hat altogether. Do you remember?"

  Pierre froze. He closed his eyes except for a small slit and glared through his long lashes.

  "Mama gave me a big scolding for that," he said slowly, "and I don't believe she gave you orders to bring it up again and torture me with it."

  Robert took a conciliatory attitude. "So you would always like to wear white clothes and never get them dirty?"

  "No, sometimes I would. You just don't understand! Of course I'd want to lie around in the grass sometimes, or in the hay, or jump over puddles or climb a tree. That's as plain as day. But when I've finished running wild, I don't want to be scolded. I just want to go quietly to my room and put on clean fresh clothes, and then everything will be all right again. --Do you know, Robert, I really don't see any point in scolding."

  "That is convenient. How so?"

  "Well, look: if you've done something that isn't right, you know it and you're ashamed. If somebody scolds me, I'm much less ashamed. And sometimes they scold you when you haven't done anything at all, just because you weren't there when they called, or because Mama is in a bad humor."

  Robert laughed. "You've just got to average it up. Think of all the wicked things you must do that nobody sees and nobody scolds you for."

  Pierre gave no reply. It was always the same. Whenever he let himself be drawn into a discussion with a grownup about something that was really important to him, it ended in disappointment or even humiliation.

  "I'd like to see the picture again," he said in a tone which suddenly put him at a distance from the servant. Robert might equally have taken his words as a command or a request. "Come on, let me in for a second."

  Robert obeyed. He opened the studio door, admitted Pierre, and followed him, for he had strict orders not to leave anyone alone in the studio.

  Veraguth's new painting, in a temporary gilt frame, had been placed on the easel in the middle of the large room, turned toward the light. Pierre planted himself in front of it. Robert stood behind him.

  "Do you like it, Robert?"

  "Of course I like it. I'd be a fool not to."

  Pierre blinked at the picture.

  "I believe," he said thoughtfully, "you could show me a whole pile of pictures and I'd know right off if one of them was by Papa. That's why I like his pictures, because I feel that Papa made them. But, to tell you the truth, I only half like them."

  "Don't talk nonsense," said Robert, horrified, with a reproachful look at the boy, who, quite unruffled, stood blinking at the picture.

  "You see," he said. "There are some old paintings over there in the house that I like a lot better. When I grow up, I want to have pictures like that. Mountains, for instance, when the sun is setting and everything is all red and gold, or nice-looking children and ladies and flowers. Such things are really a lot nicer than an old fisherman like this who hasn't even got a real face, and a nasty black boat. Don't you agree?"

  At heart Robert agreed perfectly; he was surprised and indeed delighted at the boy's frankness. But he would not admit it.

  "You're too young to understand such things," he said curtly. "Come now, I have to lock up."

  At that moment a chugging and grinding was heard from the direction of the manor house.

  "Oh, a car!" cried Pierre joyfully, and ran out under the chestnut trees, taking forbidden shortcuts across the lawns and jumping over the flower borders. Breathless, he reached the gravel driveway in front of the house just in time to see his father and an unknown gentleman alighting from the car.

  "Pierre!" cried his father, and caught him in his arms. "Here is a friend you don't know any more. Give him your hand and ask him where he's come from."

  The boy looked the stranger straight in the eye. He gave the man his hand and looked into a ruddy-brown face and bright laughing gray eyes.

  "Where have you come from?" he asked obediently.

  The stranger picked him up in his arms. "You're getting too heavy for me, son," he said with a cheery sigh, and put him down again. "Where do I come from? From Genoa and before that from Suez, and before that from Aden, and before that, from..."

  "Oh, from India, I know, I know! And you're Uncle Otto Burkhardt. Have you brought me a tiger, or coconuts?"

  "The tiger ran away, but you can have coconuts and shells and Chinese picture albums."

  They entered the house and Veraguth led his friend, who was a good bit taller than himself, up the stairs, putting his arm affectionately round his shoulder. Upstairs in the hallway they were met by the lady of the house. With restrained but sincere cordiality she welcomed the guest, whose hale cheerful face reminded her of happy times in years gone by. He held her hand in his for a moment and looked into her face.

  "You haven't aged any, Frau Veraguth," he complimented her. "You've held up better than Johann."

  "And you haven't changed at all," she said amiably.

  He laughed. "Oh, the facade is still in good shape, but I've given up dancing. Besides, it wasn't getting me anywhere, I'm still a bachelor."

  "This time, I hope, you've come to Europe to look for a wife."

  "No, Frau Veraguth, it's too late for that. And I wouldn't want to spoil my stay in Europe. I have relatives, you know, and I'm gradually developing into an inheritance uncle. I wouldn't dare turn up at home with a wife."

  Coffee had been served in Frau Veraguth's room. They drank coffee and liqueurs and chatted for an hour about ocean voyages, rubber plantations, and Chinese porcelain. At first the painter was quiet and slightly depressed. He had not set foot in this room for months. But it all went off smoothly and with Otto's presence a lighter, more cheerful, more childlike atmosphere seemed to have come into the house.

  "I believe my wife would like to rest awhile," said the painter at length. "Come, Otto, I'll show you your rooms."

  They took their leave and went to the guest rooms. Veraguth had prepared the two rooms for his friend, attending to everything himself. He had arranged the furniture and thought of everything from the pictures on the wall to the books in the bookcase. Over the bed hung a faded old photograph, a touchingly comical class picture dating back to the seventies. It struck the guest's eye, and he went closer to look at it.

  "Good Lord!" he cried in amazement. "There we are, all sixteen of us! What a touching thought! I hadn't seen that in twenty years!"

  Veraguth smiled. "Yes, I thought it would amuse you. I hope you find everything you need. Do you want to unpack now?"

  Burkhardt sat down squarely on a large steamer trunk with copper corners and looked about him with satisfaction. "This is perfect. And where are your quarters? Next door? Or upstairs?"

  The painter played with the handle of a leather bag.

  "No," he said offhandedly. "I live over in the studio now. I've added to it."

  "You must show me that later. But ... do you sleep over there too?"

  Veraguth dropped the bag and turned around. "Yes, I sleep over there too."

  His friend fell into a thoughtful silence. Then he reached into the bag and took out a bundle of keys which he began to jangle. "Should we do a little unpacking? You could go and get the boy, he'll enjoy it."

  Veraguth went out and soon returned with Pierre.

  "You have beautiful luggage, Uncle Otto, I've been looking at it. And so many tags. I've read a few. One of them says Penang. What's Penang?"

  "It's a city in Malaya where I go sometimes. Come, you can open this."

  He gave the child a flat, intricate key and bade him unlock a suitcase. It sprang open, and the very first thing to meet the eye was
an inverted flat basket of bright-colored Malay wickerwork. They turned it over and removed the wrapping; inside, padded with paper and rags, there were lovely, strangely shaped shells such as are offered for sale in exotic seaports.

  The shells were a present for Pierre, who was too happy to speak, and after the shells came an ebony elephant and a Chinese toy with grotesque movable wooden figures, and finally a roll of garish-colored Chinese prints, full of gods, devils, kings, warriors, and dragons.

  While the painter joined the boy in admiring his presents, Burkhardt unpacked the leather bag and put slippers, underwear, brushes, and so on, in their places. Then he went back to his friends.

  "Well," he said cheerily, "that's enough work for today. Now to pleasure. Could we take a look at the studio?"

  Pierre looked up, and again, just as when the car had driven in, his father's animated face, grown youthful with pleasure, filled him with surprise.

  "You're so gay, Papa," he said approvingly.

  "Yes indeed," Veraguth nodded.

  But his friend asked: "Isn't he usually so gay?"

  Pierre looked from one to the other with embarrassment.

  "I don't know," he said hesitantly. But then he laughed again and spoke up: "No, you've never been so cheerful."

  He ran off with his basket of shells. Otto Burkhardt took his friend's arm and they went out. Veraguth led him through the park to the studio.

  "Yes," Burkhardt observed at once, "I can see the change. I must say it looks very nice. When did you do it?"

  "About three years ago. The studio has been enlarged too."

  Burkhardt looked around. "The lake is marvelous. Let's go for a little swim this evening. You have a beautiful place here, Johann. But now I want to see the studio. Have you any new paintings here?"

  "Not very many. But there's one I want you to see, I only finished it the day before yesterday. I think it's good."

  Veraguth opened the doors. The high studio was festively neat, the floor freshly scrubbed, and everything in its place. The new painting stood all by itself in the middle of the room. They stood facing it in silence. The heavy damp-cold atmosphere of the dismal rainy dawn contrasted with the clear light and hot, sundrenched air that came in through the doors.