“No. There is no other direction. This is the only one. I’ve inquired.
And now--every afternoon at four--I come to a dead wall.”
“But, my dear sir, if the thing is so important to you----”
“It’s vital. You see, I’m--I’m an investigator--I am engaged in a
scientific research. I live----” he paused and seemed to think. “Just
over there,” he said, and pointed suddenly dangerously near my eye.
“The house with white chimneys you see just over the trees. And my
circumstances are abnormal--abnormal. I am on the point of completing
one of the most important demonstrations--I can assure you one of _the
most important_ demonstrations that have ever been made. It requires
constant thought, constant mental ease and activity. And the afternoon
was my brightest time!--effervescing with new ideas--new points of
view.”
“But why not come by still?”
“It would be all different. I should be self-conscious. I should think
of you at your play--watching me irritated--instead of thinking of my
work. No! I must have the bungalow.”
I meditated. Naturally, I wanted to think the matter over thoroughly
before anything decisive was said. I was generally ready enough for
business in those days, and selling always attracted me; but in the
first place it was not my bungalow, and even if I sold it to him at a
good price I might get inconvenienced in the delivery of goods if the
current owner got wind of the transaction, and in the second I was,
well--undischarged. It was clearly a business that required delicate
handling. Moreover, the possibility of his being in pursuit of some
valuable invention also interested me. It occurred to me that I would
like to know more of this research, not with any dishonest intention,
but simply with an idea that to know what it was would be a relief from
play-writing. I threw out feelers.
He was quite willing to supply information. Indeed, once he was fairly
under way the conversation became a monologue. He talked like a man
long pent up, who has had it over with himself again and again. He
talked for nearly an hour, and I must confess I found it a pretty
stiff bit of listening. But through it all there was the undertone of
satisfaction one feels when one is neglecting work one has set oneself.
During that first interview I gathered very little of the drift of
his work. Half his words were technicalities entirely strange to me,
and he illustrated one or two points with what he was pleased to call
elementary mathematics, computing on an envelope with a copying-ink
pencil, in a manner that made it hard even to seem to understand.
“Yes,” I said; “yes. Go on!” Nevertheless I made out enough to
convince me that he was no mere crank playing at discoveries. In
spite of his crank-like appearance there was a force about him that
made that impossible. Whatever it was, it was a thing with mechanical
possibilities. He told me of a work-shed he had, and of three
assistants--originally jobbing carpenters--whom he had trained. Now,
from the work-shed to the patent office is clearly only one step. He
invited me to see those things. I accepted readily, and took care, by a
remark or so, to underline that. The proposed transfer of the bungalow
remained very conveniently in suspense.
At last he rose to depart, with an apology for the length of his call.
Talking over his work was, he said, a pleasure enjoyed only too rarely.
It was not often he found such an intelligent listener as myself, he
mingled very little with professional scientific men.
“So much pettiness,” he explained; “so much intrigue! And really,
when one has an idea--a novel, fertilising idea--I don’t want to be
uncharitable, but----”
I am a man who believes in impulses. I made what was perhaps a rash
proposition. But you must remember that I had been alone, play-writing
in Lympne, for fourteen days, and my compunction for his ruined walk
still hung about me. “Why not,” said I, “make this your new habit? In
the place of the one I spoilt? At least, until we can settle about the
bungalow. What you want is to turn over your work in your mind. That
you have always done during your afternoon walk. Unfortunately that’s
over--you can’t get things back as they were. But why not come and talk
about your work to me; use me as a sort of wall against which you may
throw your thoughts and catch them again? It’s certain I don’t know
enough to steal your ideas myself--and I know no scientific men----”
I stopped. He was considering. Evidently the thing attracted him. “But
I’m afraid I should bore you,” he said.
“You think I’m too dull?”
“Oh no; but technicalities----”
“Anyhow, you’ve interested me immensely this afternoon.”
“Of course it _would_ be a great help to me. Nothing clears up one’s
ideas so much as explaining them. Hitherto----”
“My dear sir, say no more.”
“But really can you spare the time?”
“There is no rest like change of occupation,” I said, with profound
conviction.
The affair was over. On my verandah steps he turned. “I am already
greatly indebted to you,” he said.