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RON BLAIRYeats Lights the CandlesAfter the train pulled out of the station, he opened the magazine. His anticipationof pleasure was twofold. He could now expect a cheque for his work any day. Andhere was the second pleasure as he came to the right page: the story's title and hisname in large letters - Louis Esson. But the pleasure did not last. When he sawthe garish illustration of the pig-tailed Chinaman holding a knife at the throat ofthe terrified white woman he flinched with shame, and closed the magazine.An English train. An American magazine. An Australian writer. All three hadbeen woven into a moment of pleasure and shame that was all but instantaneous.When it had passed, he reflected that the money would be welcome. It was the secondsuch story the magazine had accepted. The editor had written telling him to keepit up, that there was a good demand for "chow" stories and a good piece of. moneyto be made from them. If he could keep those yarns about the goldfields and opiumdens coming in there was no reason why he mightn't make his name out of themthe way Zane Grey did with the Wild West."Was this why I had become a writer?" Esson asked himself. He was temptedto throw the magazine under the train but thought that Hilda might want to seeit so he put it in his gladstone bag.Looking out the window, Esson saw someone running up to bowl. The batsmankicked the ball and it spun into the air. The train plunged into a tunnel and hewould never know if the ball had been caught.One of the best things about being in England in 1920 was the cricket. Everywherethey went, the Australians were thrashing the English. Armstrong's men wereunstoppable. Gregory all vigour and venom; Mccartney a superb left-handed spinner;stubborn, slow-thinking Collins who could block a ball for five hours and then hitit all over the ground until the English wept; McDonald and Pellew and Mailey- all of them brilliant and pitiless. Why can't we write plays the way we can playcricket thought Esson on the train. He'd had every intention of seeing the ThirdTest at Lords when the letter from Yeats had arrived. Both he and Hilda were invitedto come to Oxford and stay the night. Hilda wouldn't leave the flat because of themorning sickness."Just my luck," she said."Look, let's postpone it," he said."You go Louis," she said, "By the time I'm fit to travel he could be anywhere,America, Ireland - who knows where? You go. You've had your heart set on seeinghim again ever since we left Australia." It was quite true. He had first met Yeatsin London fifteen years ago. The poet had worn a wide black hat over his longdark hair and his flowing tie was arranged in an enormous bow.* This article was originally given as a paper during Writers' Week at the 1989 PerthFestival.WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989 41