Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (137 page)

"I
should
not
care
so
much
if
Burford
did
them
well,
but
he
doesn't know
how
to
write
a
story.
Look
at
this
last
thing
of
mine—of
his.
I saw
it
leaping
and
alive;
it
rang
and
sang,
a
very
Maenad;
it
had
red blood.
With
him
it
wasn't
even
bom
dead;
it
squeaks
puppetry,
and leaks
sawdust,
and
moves
like
a
lay
figure,
and
smells
of
most
manifest manufacture.
But
I
can't
do
it
now.
He
has
spoilt
it
for
ever.
It's
the third
time.
Curse
him,
and
my
luck!
I
work
when
I
must."

"Your
calling
is
very
serious
to
you,"
said
Vincent,
lazily.
"After all,
what
does
it
matter?
What
are
stories?
Are
they
not
opiates
for cowards'
lives?
I
would
rather
invent
some
little
instrument,
or
build a
plank
bridge
across
a
muddy
stream,
than
write
the
best
of
them."

Esplan
turned
on
him.

"Well,
well,"
he
almost
shouted;
"the
man
who
invented
chloroform
was
great,
and
the
makers
of
it
are
useful.
Call
stories
chloral, morphia,
bromides,
if
you
will,
but
we
give
ease."

"When
it
might
be
better
to
use
blisters."

"Rot!"
answered
Esplan,
rudely.
"In
any
case,
your
talk
is
idle.
I
am I,
writers
are
writers—small,
if
you
will,
but
a
result
and
a
force.
Give me
a
rest.
Don't
talk
ideal
poppycock!"

He
ordered
liqueur
brandy.
After
drinking
it
his
aspect
changed
a little,
and
he
smiled.

ROBERTS:
THE
ANTICIPATOR

"Perhaps
it
won't
occur
again.
If
it
does,
I
shall
feel
that
Burford

is
very
much
in
my
way.
I
shall
have
to
---
"

"Remove
him?"
asked
Vincent.

"No,
but
work
quicker.
I
have
something
to
write
soon.
It
would just
suit
him
to
spoil."

The
talk
changed,
and
soon
afterwards
the
friends
parted.
Esplan went
to
his
chambers
in
Bloomsbury.
He
paced
his
sitting-room
idly for
a
few
minutes,
but
after
a
while
he
began
to
feel
the
impulse
in his
brain;
his
fingers
itched,
the
semi-automatic
mood
came
on.
He sat
down
and
wrote,
at
first
slowly,
then
quicker,
and
at
last
furiously.

It
was
three
in
the
afternoon
when
he
commenced
work.
At
ten o'clock
he
was
still
at
his
desk,
and
the
big
table
on
which
it
stood
was strewn
with
tobacco-ashes
and
many
pipes.
His
hair
again
stood
on end,
for
at
intervals
he
ran
his
damp
hands
through
it.
His
eyes
altered like
opals;
at
times
they
sparkled
and
almost
blazed,
and
then
grew dim.
He
changed
at
each
sentence;
he
mouthed
his
written
talk audibly;
each
thought
was
reflected
in
his
pale
mobile
face.
He laughed
and
then
groaned;
at
the
crisis,
tears
ran
down
and
blurred the
already
undecipherable
script.
But
at
eleven
he
rose,
stiff
in
every limb,
and
staggering.
With
difficulty
he
picked
the
unpaged
leaves from
the
floor,
and
sorted
them
in
due
order.
He
fell
into
his
chair.