And, as the circumstances of my learning this were in a high degree
unusual, I will relate them with such clearness as I am able. I ought first to say, however, that the selection of the drawings that
were to illustrate the book having been made (the drawings for which my
own text was to serve as commentary would be the better expression), the
superintendence of their production had been left to Schofield. He,
Maschka, and I passed the proofs in consultation. The blocks were almost
ready; and the reason for their call that evening was to consider the
possibility of having all ready for production in the early spring--a
possibility which was contingent on the state of advancement of my own
share of the book. That evening I had experienced my second check. (I omit those that had
immediately succeeded the first one, as resembling that one so closely in
the manner of their coming.) It had not come by any means so completely
and definitively as the former one, but it had sufficed to make my
progress, both mentally and mechanically, so sluggish and struggling
a performance that for the time being I had given up the attempt, and was
once more regarding with a sort of perturbed stupor my hand that held the
pen. Andriaovsky's portrait stood in its usual place, on the chair at the
end of my writing-table; but I had eyes for nothing but that refractory
hand of mine. Now it is true that during the past weeks I had studied Andriaovsky's
portrait thoroughly enough to be able to call up the vivid mental image
of it at will; but that did not entirely account for the changed aspect
with which it now presented itself to that uncomprehended sense within
us that makes of these shadows such startling realities. Flashing and
life-like as was the presentation on the canvas (mind you, I was not
looking at it, but all the time at my own hand), it was dead paint by
comparison with that _mental image_ which I saw (if I may so use a term
of which custom has restricted the meaning to one kind of seeing) as
plainly as I ever saw Andriaovsky in his life. I know now that it was
by virtue of that essential essence that bound us heart and brain and
soul together that I so saw him, eyes glittering, head sardonically
wagging, fine mouth shaping phrases of insight and irony. And the strange
thing was, that I could not have located this so living image by
confining it to any portion of the space within the four walls of my
library. It was before me, behind me, within my head, about me, _was me_,
invading and possessing the "me" that sat at the table. At one moment
the eyes mockingly invited me to go on with my work; the next, a frown
had seated itself on that massive pylon of his forehead; and then
suddenly his countenance changed entirely.... A wave of horror broke
over me. He was suddenly as I had seen him that last time in the
Hampstead "Home"--sitting up on his pillow, looking into my eyes with
that terrible look of profundity and familiarity, and asking me who I
was.... _"Harrison--ha ha!... You shall very soon know that I know you,
if ..."_

It is but by the accidence of our limited experience that sounds are loud
or soft to that inner ear of us; these words were at one and the same
time a dreadful thunder and a voice interstellarly inaccessible and
withdrawn. They, too, were before, behind, without, and within. And
incorporated (I know not how else to express it) with these words were
other words, in the English I knew, in the Hebrew in which he had quoted
them from the sacred Books of his People, in all languages, in no
language save that essential communication of which languages are but the
inessential husk and medium--words that told me that though I took the
Wings of the Morning and fled into the uttermost parts of the earth, yea,
though I made my bed in Hell, I could not escape him.... He had kept his word. I _did_ know that he knew who and what I was.... I cannot tell whether my lips actually shaped the question that even in
that moment burst from me. "But Form--and Forms? It _is_ then true that all things are but aspects
of One thing?..." "Yes--in death," the voice seemed to reply. My next words, I know, were actually spoken aloud. "Then tell me--tell me--_do you not wish me to write it? "_

Suddenly I leapt out of my chair with a gulping cry. A voice _had_
spoken....

"Of course we wish you to write it...."

For one instant of time my vision seemed to fold on itself like smoke;
then it was gone. The face into which I was wildly staring was Maschka's,
and behind her stood Schofield. They had been announced, but I had heard
nothing of it. "Were you thinking of _not_ writing it?" she demanded, while Schofield
scowled at me. "No--no--," I stammered, as I got up and tardily placed them chairs. Schofield did not speak, but he did not remove his eyes from me. Somehow
I could not meet them. "Well," she said, "Jack had already told me that you seemed in two minds
about it. That's what we've called about--to know definitely what it is
you propose to do." I saw that she had also called, if necessary, to quarrel. I began to
recover a little. "Did you tell her that?" I demanded of Schofield. "If you did,
you--misinterpreted me." In my house, he ignored the fact that I was in the room. He replied to
Maschka. "I understood Mr. Harrison to say definitely, and in those words, that if
I didn't like the way in which he was writing Michael's 'Life,' I might
write and publish one myself," he said. "I did say that," I admitted; "but I never said that whatever _you_ did I
should not go on with mine." "Yours!" cried Maschka. "What right have _you_ in my brother's 'Life'?" I quickly told her. "I have the right to write my recollections of him, and, subject to
certain provisions of the Law, to base anything on them I think fit," I
replied. "But," she cried aghast, "there can't be _two_ 'Lives'!..." "It's news to me that two were contemplated," I returned. "The point is,
that I can get mine published, and you can't." Schofield's harsh voice sounded suddenly--but again to Maschka, not to
me. "Ye might remind Mr. Harrison that others have capabilities in business
besides himself. Beyond a doubt our sales will be comparatively small,
but they'll be to such as have not made the great refusal." Think of it!... I almost laughed. "Oh!... Been trying it?" I inquired. He made no reply. "Well, those who have made the refusal have at least had something to
refuse," I said mildly. Then, realising that this was mere quarrelling, I
returned to the point. "Anyhow, there's no question of refusing to write
the 'Life.' I admit that during the last fortnight I've met with certain
difficulties; but the task isn't so easy as perhaps it looks.... I'm
making progress." "I suppose," she said hesitatingly, after a pause, "that you don't care
to show it as far as it is written?" For a moment I also hesitated. I thought I saw where she was.