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Updated: June 15, 2025
"Is anyone coming to church with me this morning?" asked Henry Wimbush. No one responded. He baited his bare invitation. "I read the lessons, you know. And there's Mr. Bodiham. His sermons are sometimes worth hearing." "Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I for one prefer to worship in the infinite church of Nature. How does our Shakespeare put it?
"Inspiration has made the difference," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith solemnly. "It came quite suddenly like a gentle dew from heaven." He lifted his hand and let it fall back on to his knee to indicate the descent of the dew. "It was one evening.
Barbecue-Smith. "I am very fond of music." "Then I couldn't possibly go on," Denis replied. "I only make noises." There was a silence. Mr. Barbecue-Smith stood with his back to the hearth, warming himself at the memory of last winter's fires. He could not control his interior satisfaction, but still went on smiling to himself. At last he turned to Denis. "You write," he asked, "don't you?"
I sat biting the end of my pen and looking at the electric light, which hung above my table, a little above and in front of me." He indicated the position of the lamp with elaborate care. "Have you ever looked at a bright light intently for a long time?" he asked, turning to Denis. Denis didn't think he had. "You can hypnotise yourself that way," Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.
It's simply a question of getting it to function." The clock struck eight. There was no sign of any of the other guests; everybody was always late at Crome. Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on. "That's my secret," he said. "I give it you freely." I did it myself, so I know what it's like. Up till the time I was thirty-eight I was a writer like you a writer without Inspiration.
Lunch, tea, dinner, theatre, supper every day. It was fun, of course, while it lasted. But there wasn't much left of it afterwards. There's rather a good thing about that in Barbecue-Smith's new book. Where is it?" She sat up and reached for a book that was lying on the little table by the head of the sofa. "Do you know him, by the way?" she asked. "Who?" "Mr. Barbecue-Smith."
It was curious, Denis reflected, the way the Infinite sometimes repeated itself. "Seeing is Believing. Yes, but Believing is also Seeing. If I believe in God, I see God, even in the things that seem to be evil." Mr. Barbecue-Smith looked up from his notebook. "That last one," he said, "is particularly subtle and beautiful, don't you think? Without Inspiration I could never have hit on that."
"Ah, but, dear lady, that's only a symbol," exclaimed Mr. Barbecue-Smith, "a material symbol of a h-piritual truth. Lambs signify..." "Then there are military uniforms," Mr. Scogan went on. "When scarlet and pipe-clay were abandoned for khaki, there were some who trembled for the future of war.
Barbecue-Smith, and he squeezed Denis's arm encouragingly. "The Bard's is a noble calling." As soon as tea was over Mr. Barbecue-Smith excused himself; he had to do some writing before dinner. Priscilla quite understood. The prophet retired to his chamber. Mr. Barbecue-Smith came down to the drawing-room at ten to eight.
Denis wondered if there was any method, consistent, of course, with politeness, by which he could dissociate himself from Mr. Barbecue-Smith's "we." There was none; and besides, it was too late now, for Mr. Barbecue-Smith was once more pursuing the tenor of his discourse. "At thirty-eight I was a poor, struggling, tired, overworked, unknown journalist.
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