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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