to-day, I had left the
publisher's office knowing they were close to me, almost within my very
arms. Like the prisoner serving his time in gaol, and living, as it
were, in the last day that sets him free, I had been living these
twelve months in the day when the last line should be written. Now all
to be recommenced from the wearying, sickening beginning. And why? Why
had he done it? That I could not understand. As a psychological enigma
it leapt fitfully before my brain between the spasms of personal
desperation. He had nothing to gain, everything to lose by my failure.
He knew I was a man to always do the utmost for my friend, simply
because he was my friend, and therefore from any increase of power in
me he could derive nothing but benefit. There was absolutely no motive,
could be no cause, for the act except undiluted jealousy and envy. I
stepped inside the room again and went again to the hearth. Except when
I saw the piles of black tinder I could not realise that he had done
it. It seemed incredible, as if I must be dreaming. But there they lay,
leaf upon leaf, some whole and perfect yet, sheets of black tinder,
curled round at the corners where the flames had rolled them up, and
lined still with white marks where the ink had been. Yes, it was so.
The whole of my work was a nothing, and I a dependent pauper again.

Where was that whole brilliant structure now that I had lived for and
so passionately loved through this past year? Along each line had
flowed the very essence of my feelings at the time the line was
written, and each one was irreplaceable. The fervour of a past
inspiration, like the fervour of a past desire, can never be recalled.
I gazed down into the grate and felt, stealthily creeping upon me, as
if it had been a beast with me in the empty room, my intense hatred of
this other man, divided from me by a few feet of space and one slight
partition. There was no outlet from his room except into this. A few
steps, force my way in, and what would follow?

I pressed both hands across my eyes and bowed my head till it leant
hard upon the mantelpiece, feeling the longing and the urging towards
physical violence against him rush upon me and tear me like wolves. The
mental rage diffused itself through all the physical system till it
seemed like poison pouring through my veins. Every pulse, beating
convulsively in arms and chest and neck, seemed to clamour together in
hungry fury. I leant there trying to stifl