Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (136 page)

The Anticipator

By MORLEY ROBERTS

"O
f
course, i admit it isn't plagiarism,"
 
said carter esplan,

savagely;
"it's
fate,
it's
the
devil,
but
is
it
the
less
irritating
on
that account?
No,
no!"

And
he
ran
his
hand
through
his
hair
till
it
stood
on
end.
He
shook with
febrile
excitement,
a
red
spot
burned
on
either
cheek,
and
his bitten
lip
quivered.

"Confound
Burford
and
his
parents
and
his
ancestors!
The
tools to
him
that
can
handle
them,"
he
added
after
a
pause,
during
which his
friend
Vincent
curiously
considered
him.

"It's
your
own
fault,
my
dear
wild
man,"
said
he;
"you
are
too lazy.
Besides,
remember
these
things—these
notions,
motives—are
in the
air.
Originality
is
only
the
art
of
catching
early
worms.
Why
don't you
do
the
things
as
soon
as
you
invent
them?"

"Now
you
talk
like
a
bourgeois,
like
a
commercial
traveller,"
re-
turned
Esplan,
angrily.
"Why
doesn't
an
apple-tree
yield
apples
when
the
blossoms
are
fertilized?
Why
wait
for
summer,
and
the
influences
of
wind
and
sky?
Why
don't
live
chickens
burst
new-laid
eggs?
Shall
parturition
tread
sudden
on
conception?
Didn't
the
mountain
labour
to
bring
forth
a
mouse?
And
shall
---
"

"Your
works
of
genius
not
require
a
portion
of
the
eternity
to
which they
are
destined?"

"Stuff!"
snarled
Esplan;
"but
you
know
my
method.
I
catch
the suggestion,
the
floating
thistledown
of
thought,
the
title,
maybe;
and then
I
leave
it,
perhaps
without
a
note,
to
the
brain,
to
the
subliminal consciousness,
the
sub-conscious
self.
The
story
grows
in
the
dark
of the
inner,
perpetual,
sleepless
soul.
It
may
be
rejected
by
the
artistic tribunal
sitting
there;
it
may
be
bidden
to
stand
aside.
I,
the
outer
I, the
husk-case
of
heredities,
know
nothing
of
it,
but
one
day
I
take the
pen
and
the
hand
writes
it.
This
is
the
automatism
of
art,
and
I—I am
nothing,
the
last
only
of
the
concealed
individualities
within
me. Perhaps
a
dumb
ancestor
attains
speech,
and
yet
the
Complex
Ego Esplan
must
be
anticipated
in
this
way!"

He
rose
and
paced
the
lonely
club-smoking-room
with
irregular steps.
His
nerves
were
evidently
quivering,
his
brain
was
wild.
But Vincent,
who
was
a
physician,
saw
deeper.
For
Esplan's
speech
was jerky,
at
times
he
missed
the
right
word;
the
speech
centres
were
not under
control.

"What
of
morphine?"
he
thought.
"I
wonder
if
he's
at
it
again,
and is
to-day
without
his
quantum."
But
Esplan
burst
out
once
more.