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famous? Does it make you happy?”
    â€œHappy? No, I wouldn’t say that. It seems right. There are perhaps two, three, four painters who amount to more and have more to offer than I. I’ve never counted myself among the really great; what the journalists say is nonsense. I have a right to be taken seriously, and since I am, I’m satisfied. All the rest is newspaper glory or a question of money.”
    â€œI suppose so. But what do you mean by the really great?”
    â€œThe kings and princes. My kind can get to be a general or minister, that’s as far as he can go. The most we can do is to work hard and take nature as seriously as possible. The kings are nature’s brothers and friends, they play with her, they create where we can only imitate. But of course there aren’t very many kings, not one in a hundred years.”
    They walked back and forth in the studio. Casting about for words, the painter stared at the floor, his friend walked beside him and tried to read his sallow lean face.
    At the door to the adjoining room, Otto stopped. “How about showing me your living quarters?” he said. “And let’s have a cigar.”
    Veraguth opened the door. They passed through the living room and looked into the other little rooms. Burkhardt lighted a cigar. He went into his friend’s bedroom, saw his bed, and carefully examined the alcoves littered with painting equipment and smoking accessories. The general effect was almost of poverty; the home of an ascetic, hard-working bachelor.
    â€œSo you’ve settled over here,” he said dryly. But he could see and feel everything that had happened in the last few years. He observed with satisfaction the objects suggestive of sports, gymnastics, horseback riding, and noted with concern the absence of any sign of well-being, creature comfort, or enjoyment of leisure.
    Then they went back to the painting. So this was how these pictures, hung in the places of honor in galleries all over the world and sold at high prices, were made; they were made in rooms that knew only work and self-denial, where one could find nothing festive, nothing useless, no cherished baubles or bric-a-brac, no fragrance of wine or flowers, no memory of women.
    Two photographs were nailed over the narrow bed, one of little Pierre and one of Otto Burkhardt. Burkhardt remembered it well. A poor snapshot, it showed him in a tropical helmet with the veranda of his Indian bungalow behind him; just below chest level, the picture disintegrated into mystical streamers where light had fallen on the plate.
    â€œThe studio is beautiful. And what a hard worker you’ve become! Give me your hand, old friend, it’s wonderful to see you again. But now I’m tired, let me disappear for an hour. Will you call for me later on, for a swim or a walk? Fine. No, I don’t need anything. I’ll be all right in an hour. Until then.”
    He sauntered off slowly under the trees and Veraguth looked after him, observing how his stature and his gait and every fold of his clothing breathed self-assurance and serene enjoyment of life.
    Burkhardt went into the house, but passed his own rooms, climbed the stairs, and knocked on Frau Veraguth’s door.
    â€œAm I disturbing you, or may I keep you company for a little while?”
    She admitted him with a smile; he found the brief unpracticed smile on her grave face strangely helpless.
    â€œIt’s magnificent here in Rosshalde. I’ve already been in the park and down at the lake. And how Pierre is thriving! He’s so attractive, he almost makes me feel sorry I’m a bachelor.”
    â€œHe is nice-looking, isn’t he? Do you think he takes after my husband?”
    â€œYes, a little. Well, actually, more than a little. I didn’t know Johann at that age, but I remember pretty well how he looked when he was eleven or twelve. —Incidentally, he seems a bit tired. What? No, I was speaking of