Waterbury evening Democrat., 1895-08-10

Lud6 W6 never ShW nm Gnef0.
 "Yes," said Bourne, "that was a sad story too. Norman was fond of her. The Bohemia life is bad for women of that sort when they're too pretty and their husbands can't give them as much mon ey as they want"
 Itwas so sad story that they did not dwell on it. But Ericsson went on:
 "It sounds almost like a paradox. But really believe that while his first success practically ruined him this great blow nearly made him man again.
 Philip Gaythorne observed regretfu1 ly that he had not noticed it.
 ''It did, though" Ericsson rejoined. "You would have found it out if you'd seen as much of him as did. He was quite crushed at first, for he was very fond of his wife, though he was too in- dolent to work for her. But afterward he began to feel that he wanted an ob- ject again in life, and he took to work ing again to give himself one. Art, my boy, he used to say, is the only thing worth living for. mean to live for art and nothing else. It will help me to for get. I'm going home to begin another play.
 And that was the play" Bourne said, "that he was finishing when he died?''
 "Yes; the play that we have come down here to look for. It should be good. Poor Norman was taking infinite pains with it. He meant to put his whole soul into it. For the last year of his life I hardly ever heard him speak of anything else. I forget how many times he told me he had rewritten the first act. He wouldn't show it to me, he said, till he was quite satisfied that ho had done his best I suppose he never read you any of it for the same reason. "
 "Never," Bourne answered, land I didn't press him. I hate criticising un- finished work. He used to talk of it of ten enough, though, ill the Hyde Park greenroom. So far as could make out, everybody he knew was to have part ill it-juSt the sort of part he liked best. He used to buttonhole everybody in turn. An, me boy, he would say, I've got such part for you-a rattling part lots of fiat" and two or three splen- did moments! I'm going home to work it up tonight, But he did not get home very early, as rule, on those nights. The men who were promised such splen- did parts used to be hospitable to him. He must have worked very slowly"
 "Yes, but also very carefully" said Gaythorne. He was determined to have every detail right. I remember him consulting me about the names he would give his characters. -
 "A good choice of names is a very important consideration, interrupted St. John Bourne.
 II know it. There was to be a strike ill Norman's play, and he spent a whole afternoon ill my chamber trying to think of good name with a good, ster- ling, honest ring like John Burns. Be tween us we thought of several, but none of them quite pleased him. He said he must think it out when he got home Yes; /; he worked very slowly, but he was very confident of success when he should have got everything right"
 And all the while," said Bourne, "tho poor fellow was killing himself with drink. wonder if he knew it. "
 He knew it well enough" Ralph Ericsson replied. He didn't particular ly pant to live The one thing that made life tolerable to him in those days was his work, and i'll the state he was in he could do no work without the drink. It whipped up his imagination and took him out of the world of com monplaccs into which he had declined, and to which he always tended to re- lapse. Sometimes I remonstrated with him. He always listened patiently, and he always made the same reply. It was no use, he said. If he gave up drink. ing, he would have to give up working. He didn't mind dying soon, but he want ed to do something worth doing before he died. Ill the old time ideas used to come to hlm spontaneously. Now he could only bring them back artiStically by drinking. Unce, remember, he took down Carlyle's Life of Schiller, and showed mo that wonderful passage where l the historian describes the poet sitting ill his Wnrkroom at Jena wrecking his health with stimulants to quicken the working of ~genius-'the toilworn but devoted soul alone, under the silent, starry canopy of night, offering up the | troubled moments of existence on the al tar of etcrnity!' That was his case, he ettltl. 1Il0 uEllh llISIlb hl1l hIhl, DUt II it only helped him to leave work of genius behind he didn't care. Then hc went on talking of his work, telling me of scenes he had projected for it. scenes of such marvellous dramatic strength that I had not the heart to reproach him any moro, but I felt instead that the sacrifice of his health and life to such an end was well worth the making" | He spoke with rare and wonderful enthusiasm. which carried his listeners with him. They sat thinking silently for a few minutes, and then St. John Bourne said:
 "Ericson, shall produce that play. '
 After further pause he added:
 ''I will put it on at a benefit matinee for Jessie If it succeeds, it shall go in the authors fees for Jessie. By love, ess, after all. "
 Then, refectively:
 "I suppose the play isn't left quite ir a finished state. If it wants anything done to it, think will lct you try your hand on it, Ericson. You seem to know better than the rest of us what Norman's ideus were. It'll be chance for you, my boy"
 It was a chance he had not dared tC hope for. He smiled his thanks, telling himself that St. John Bourne was one of the few theatrical managers who sometimes carry out their promises. few minutes later Mrs. Saunders came into the room, and the business of get ting together the effects and papers O the man of genius could be begun.
 The valuables were mostly gone, { bundle of pawn tickets bearing witness t their whereabouts. Beyond these ther' were only n few books and photographs a drawer full of letters and some pic torial souvenirs of popular dramas, and finally, there was the play, the chief ob I .a, 70 Al>os.