Nika replied quite sadly that she had hoped to finish it that day, but the days were very short now and she could not paint by lamp light. Her mother should see how little her work still lacked.
“If I had one hour more of daylight, I could finish it,” she sighed.
Nika placed a large painting under the bright lamp. It somewhat resembled the beautiful pictures which decorated the walls of the room. The colors in it were perfectly wonderful, and Cornelli had never before seen such a lovely picture. Sparkling crimson roses were hanging down an old wall and dense ivy was creeping up between them with shiny green leaves. An old oak tree was stretching large gnarled branches over the decayed wall, and below, a clear stream was peacefully flowing out to a meadow, where glowing red and blue flowers seemed to greet it joyfully.
Cornelli stared at the lovely picture; she had never seen anything like this glittering stream, the painted trees and flowers; one seemed to hear the murmuring of the brook, far, far away through the meadow. It was all so full of life! And to think that Nika had painted it! Cornelli felt as if a deep, deep gulf lay between her and the two sisters, a chasm that separated her from them forever.
The two sisters seemed to stand before her like two splendid creatures, full of beauty and fine gifts, while she stood there a stupid, awkward, block-headed Trina, whom nobody on earth ever could possibly love. Mrs. Halm gave Nika great encouragement by praising her work and urging her to begin promptly next day.
Then she sat down at the piano, for they always concluded their evening with a song.
Cornelli remained still. The rector’s wife urged her to join them, but Cornelli had had too many impressions that day to be able to sing. She knew quite well the old evening song that they were singing, for Martha had taught it to her long ago, but she felt as if she could not utter a note.
At the end of the song Agnes suddenly exploded: “Oh, mother, that is nothing at all. When you are hoarse and Dino is in bed, our singing is frightful. Nika only squeaks like a little chicken with a sore throat.”
“Well, then one has to stop singing,” said Nika, shaking her shoulders a little proudly.
“No, the whole household has to sing, otherwise it is not worth anything,” Agnes declared. “It is a shame that the most beautiful thing in the world should be so little practiced.”