Villa　Rubein　and　Other　Stories
  by　John　Galsworthy
  Contents：
  Villa　Rubein
  A　Man　of　Devon
  A　Knight
  Salvation　of　a　Forsyte
  The　Silence
  PREFACE
  Writing　not　long　ago　to　my　oldest　literary　friend；　I　expressed　in　a
  moment　of　heedless　sentiment　the　wish　that　we　might　have　again　one　of
  our　talks　of　long…past　days；　over　the　purposes　and　methods　of　our
  art。　　And　my　friend；　wiser　than　I；　as　he　has　always　been；　replied
  with　this　doubting　phrase　〃Could　we　recapture　the　zest　of　that　old
  time？〃
  I　would　not　like　to　believe　that　our　faith　in　the　value　of
  imaginative　art　has　diminished；　that　we　think　it　less　worth　while　to
  struggle　for　glimpses　of　truth　and　for　the　words　which　may　pass　them
  on　to　other　eyes；　or　that　we　can　no　longer　discern　the　star　we　tried
  to　follow；　but　I　do　fear；　with　him；　that　half　a　lifetime　of　endeavour
  has　dulled　the　exuberance　which　kept　one　up　till　morning　discussing
  the　ways　and　means　of　aesthetic　achievement。　　We　have　discovered；
  perhaps　with　a　certain　finality；　that　by　no　talk　can　a　writer　add　a
  cubit　to　his　stature；　or　change　the　temperament　which　moulds　and
  colours　the　vision　of　life　he　sets　before　the　few　who　will　pause　to
  look　at　it。　　And　sothe　rest　is　silence；　and　what　of　work　we　may
  still　do　will　be　done　in　that　dogged　muteness　which　is　the　lot　of
  advancing　years。
  Other　times；　other　men　and　modes；　but　not　other　truth。　　Truth；　though
  essentially　relative；　like　Einstein's　theory；　will　never　lose　its
  ever…new　and　unique　quality…perfect　proportion；　for　Truth；　to　the
  human　consciousness　at　least；　is　but　that　vitally　just　relation　of
  part　to　whole　which　is　the　very　condition　of　life　itself。　　And　the
  task　before　the　imaginative　writer；　whether　at　the　end　of　the　last
  century　or　all　these　aeons　later；　is　the　presentation　of　a　vision
  which　to　eye　and　ear　and　mind　has　the　implicit　proportions　of　Truth。
  I　confess　to　have　always　looked　for　a　certain　flavour　in　the　writings
  of　others；　and　craved　it　for　my　own；　believing　that　all　true　vision
  is　so　coloured　by　the　temperament　of　the　seer；　as　to　have　not　only
  the　just　proportions　but　the　essential　novelty　of　a　living　thing　for；
  after　all；　no　two　living　things　are　alike。　　A　work　of　fiction　should
  carry　the　hall　mark　of　its　author　as　surely　as　a　Goya；　a　Daumier；　a
  Velasquez；　and　a　Mathew　Maris；　should　be　the　unmistakable　creations
  of　those　masters。　　This　is　not　to　speak　of　tricks　and　manners　which
  lend　themselves　to　that　facile　elf；　the　caricaturist；　but　of　a
  certain　individual　way　of　seeing　and　feeling。　　A　young　poet　once　said
  of　another　and　more　popular　poet：　〃Oh！　yes；　but　be　cuts　no　ice。
  〃And；　when　one　came　to　think　of　it；　he　did　not；　a　certain　flabbiness
  of　spirit；　a　lack　of　temperament；　an　absence；　perhaps；　of　the　ironic；
  or　passionate；　view；　insubstantiated　his　work；　it　had　no　edgejust　a
  felicity　which　passed　for　distinction　with　the　crowd。
  Let　me　not　be　understood　to　imply　that　a　novel　should　be　a　sort　of
  sandwich；　in　which　the　author's　mood　or　philosophy　is　the　slice　of
  ham。　　One's　demand　is　for　a　far　more　subtle　impregnation　of　flavour；
  just　that；　for　instance；　which　makes　De　Maupassant　a　more　poignant
  and　fascinating　writer　than　his　master　Flaubert；　Dickens　and
  Thackeray　more　living　and　permanent　than　George　Eliot　or　Trollope。
  It　once　fell　to　my　lot　to　be　the　preliminary　critic　of　a　book　on
  painting；　designed　to　prove　that　the　artist's　sole　function　was　the
  impersonal　elucidation　of　the　truths　of　nature。　　I　was　regretfully
  compelled　to　observe　that　there　were　no　such　things　as　the　truths　of
  Nature；　for　the　purposes　of　art；　apart　from　the　individual　vision　of
  the　artist。　　Seer　and　thing　seen；　inextricably　involved　one　with　the
  other；　form　the　texture　of　any　masterpiece；　and　I；　at　least；　demand
  therefrom　a　distinct　impression　of　temperament。　　I　never　saw；　in　the
  flesh；　either　De　Maupassant　or　Tchekovthose　masters　of　such
  different　methods　entirely　devoid　of　didacticismbut　their　work
  leaves　on　me　a　strangely　potent　sense　of　personality。　　Such　subtle
  intermingling　of　seer　with　thing　seen　is　the　outcome　only　of　long　and
  intricate　brooding；　a　process　not　too　favoured　by　modern　life；　yet
  without　which　we　achieve　little　but　a　fluent　chaos　of　clever
  insignificant　impressions；　a　kind　of　glorified　journalism；　holding
  much　the　same　relation　to　the　deeply…impregnated　work　of　Turgenev；
  Hardy；　and　Conrad；　as　a　film　bears　to　a　play。
  Speaking　for　myself；　with　the　immodesty　required　of　one　who　hazards
  an　introduction　to　his　own　work；　I　was　writing　fiction　for　five　years
  before　I　could　master　even　its　primary　technique；　much　less　achieve
  that　union　of　seer　with　thing　seen；　which　perhaps　begins　to　show
  itself　a　little　in　this　volumebinding　up　the　scanty　harvests　of
  1899；　1900；　and　1901especially　in　the　tales：　〃A　Knight；〃　and
  〃Salvation　of　a　Forsyte。〃　　Men；　women；　trees；　and　works　of　fiction
  very　tiny　are　the　seeds　from　which　they　spring。　　I　used　really　to　see
  the　〃Knight〃in　1896；　was　it？sitting　in　the　〃Place〃　in　front　of
  the　Casino　at　Monte　Carlo　；　and　because　his　dried…up　elegance；　his
  burnt　straw　hat；　quiet　courtesy　of　attitude；　and　big　dog；　used　to
  fascinate　and　intrigue　me；　I　began　to　imagine　his　life　so　as　to
  answer　my　own　questions　and　to　satisfy；　I　suppose；　the　mood　I　was　in。
  I　never　spoke　to　him；　I　never　saw　him　again。　　His　real　story；　no
  doubt；　was　as　different　from　that　which　I　wove　around　his　figure　as
  night　from　day。
  As　for　Swithin；　wild　horses　will　not　drag　from　me　confession　of　where
  and　when　I　first　saw　the　prototype　which　became　enlarged　to　his　bulky
  stature。　　I　owe　Swithin　much；　for　he　first　released　the　satirist　in
  me；　and　is；　moreover；　the　only　one　of　my　characters　whom　I　killed
  before　I　gave　him　life；　for　it　is　in　〃The　Man　of　Property〃　that
  Swithin　Forsyte　more　memorably　lives。
  Ranging　beyond　this　volume；　I　cannot　recollect　writing　the　first
  words　of　〃The　Island　Pharisees〃but　it　would　be　about　August；　1901。
  Like　all　the　stories　in　〃Villa　Rubein；〃　and；　indeed；　most　of　my
  tales；　the　book　originated　in　the　curiosity；　philosophic　reflections；
  and　unphilosophic　emotions　roused　in　me　by　some　single　figure　in　real
  life。　　In　this　case　it　was　Ferrand；　whose　real　name；　of　course；　was
  not　Ferrand；　and　who　died　in　some　〃sacred　institution〃　many　years　ago
  of　a　consumption　brought　on　by　the　conditions　of　his　wandering　life。
  If　not　〃a　beloved；〃　he　was　a　true　vagabond；　and　I　first　met　him　in
  the　Champs　Elysees；　just　as　in　〃The　Pigeon〃　he　describes　his　meeting
  with　Wellwyn。　　Though　drawn　very　much　from　life；　he　did　not　in　the
  end　turn　out　very　like　the　Ferrand　of　real　lifethe；　figures　of
  fiction　soon　diverge　from　their　prototypes。
  The　first　draft　of　〃The　Island　Pharisees〃　was　buried　in　a　drawer；
  when　retrieved　the　other　day；　after　nineteen　years；　it　disclosed　a
  picaresque　string　of　anecdotes　told　by　Ferrand　in　the　first　person。
  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
  d