The gambling chances of five years ago meant present stumblings and
haltings; the breach of faith of an editor long since meant a present
respite; and another week should bring me to that point of my so
strangely reduplicated experience that, allowing for the furious mental
rate at which I was now living, would make another node with that other
point in the more slowly lived past that had marked my acceptance of the
offer for the second half-dozen of the _Martin Renards_. It had been on this hazardous calculation that I had made my promise to
Maschka. I passed that week in a state of constantly increasing apprehension. True, I worked at the "Life," even assiduously; but it was plain sailing,
mere cataloguing of certain of Andriaovsky's works, a chapter I had
deliberately planned _pour mieux sauter_--to enhance the value of the
penultimate and final chapters. These were the real crux of the "Life." These were what I was reserving myself for. These were to show that only
his body was dead, and that his spirit still lived and his work was
still being done wherever a man could be found whose soul burned within
him with the same divine ardour. But I was now realising, day by day, hour by hour more clearly, what I
was incurring. I was penning nothing less than my own artistic damnation. Self-condemned, indeed, I had been this long time; but I was now making
the world a party to the sentence. The crowning of Andriaovsky involved
my own annihilation; his "Life" would be my "Hic Jacet." And yet I was
prepared, nay, resolved, to write it. I had started, and I would go
forward. I would not be spewed with the lukewarm out of the mouth of that
Spirit from which proceeds all that is bright and pure and true. The
vehemence with which I had rejected its divine bidding should at least be
correspondent with my adoration of it. The snivelling claims of the
Schofields I spurned. If, as they urged, "an artist must live," he must
live royally or starve with a tight mouth. No complaining....

And one other claim I urged in the teeth of this Spirit, which, if it
was a human Spirit at all, it could not disregard. Those pigeon-holed
obituaries of mine will proclaim to the world, one and all, the virtues
of my public life. In spite of my royal earnings, I am not a rich man. I
have not accepted wealth without accepting the personal responsibility
for it. Sick men and women in more than one hospital lie in wards
provided by _Martin Renard_ and myself; and I am not dishonoured in my
Institution at Poplar. Those vagrant wanderings with Andriaovsky have
enabled me to know the poor and those who help the poor. My personal
labours in the administration of the Institute are great, for outside
the necessary routine I leave little to subordinates. I have declined
honours offered to me for my "services to Literature," and I have never
encouraged a youth, of parts or lacking them, to make of Literature a
profession. And so on and so forth. All this, and more, you will read
when the day comes; and I don't doubt the _Falchion_ will publish my
memoir in mourning borders... But to resume. I finished the chapter I have mentioned. Maschka and her fiancé kept
punctiliously away. Then, before sitting down to the penultimate
chapter, I permitted myself the relaxation of a day in the country. I can't tell you precisely where I went; I only know it was somewhere in
Buckinghamshire, and that, ordering the car to await me a dozen miles
farther on, I set out to walk. Nor can I tell you what I saw during that
walk; I don't think I saw anything. There was a red wintry disc of a sun,
I remember, and a land grey with rime; and that is all. I was entirely
occupied with the attempt I was about to make. I think that even then
I had the sense of doom, for I know not how otherwise I should have
found myself several times making little husbandings of my force, as if
conscious that I should need it all. For I was determined, as never in my
life have I been determined, to write that "Life." And I intended, not to
wait to be challenged, but to challenge.... I met the car, returning in
search of me; and I dined at a restaurant, went home to bed, and slept
dreamlessly. On the morrow I deliberately refrained from work until the evening. My
challenge to Andriaovsky and the Powers he represented should be boldly
delivered at the very gates of their own Hour. Not until half-past eight,
with the curtains drawn, the doors locked, and orders given that on no
account whatever was I to be disturbed, did I switch on the pearly light,
place Andriaovsky's portrait in its now accustomed place, and draw my
chair up to my writing-table. VI

But before I could resume the "Life" at the point at which I had left it,
I felt that there were certain preliminaries to be settled. It was not
that I wished to sound a parley with any view of coming to terms; I had
determined what the terms were to be. As a boxer who leaps from his
corner the moment the signal is given, astounding with suddenness his
less prompt antagonist, so I should be ready when the moment came. But I
wished the issue to be defined. I did not propose to submit the whole of
my manhood to the trial. I was merely asserting my right to speak of
certain things which, if one chose to exaggerate their importance by a
too narrow and exclusive consideration of them, I might conceivably be
thought to have betrayed. I drew a sheet of paper towards me, and formally made out my claim. It
occupied not more than a dozen lines, and its nature has already been
sufficiently indicated. I put my pen down again, leaned back in my chair,
and waited. I waited, but nothing happened. It seemed that if this was my attempt to
justify myself, the plea was certainly not disallowed. But neither had I
any sign that it was allowed; and presently it occurred to me that
possibly I had couched it in terms too general. Perhaps a more particular
claim would meet with a different reception. During the earlier stages of the book's progress I had many times
deliberated on the desirability of a Preface that should state succinctly
what I considered to be my qualifications for the task. Though I had
finally decided against any such statement, the form of the Preface might
nevertheless serve for the present occasion. I took another sheet of
paper, headed it "Preface," and began once more to write. I covered the page; I covered a second; and half-way down the third I
judged my statement to be sufficient. Again I laid down my pen, leaned
back, and waited. The Preface also produced no result whatever. Again I considered; and then I saw more clearly. It came to me that, both
in the first statement and in the Preface, I was merely talking to
myself. I was convincing myself, and losing both time and strength in
doing so. The Power with which I sought to come to grips was treating my
vapourings with high disregard. To be snubbed thus by Headquarters
would never, never do....

Then I saw more clearly still.