Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1895-08-14

A part OF the money earned by Ihe
Knight Errant'' he had lost in maya
zine which had failed miserably, owing
to inefficient management. Extravagant
living accounted for the rest. So he had
come to poverty.
st. John Bourne, who never turned
his back on an old friend, had given
him small annuity, and on that he
lived. But, for the most part, la haute
Boheme had ceased to know him or take
interest in him. He haunted stage doors,
shabbily dressed. He failed to pay his
subscription to the clubs and was sell
dom invited to visit them as guest.
~ remember" Ericsson said, "about
two years ago, poor Norman always
used to turn up at the monthly dinners
of the Silurians at the Criterion. He
wasn't q member, and he wasn't
guest, but he used to look in with the
jaunty pretense Of having an appoint
ment with some man who he knew per-
fectly we'll was not likely to be there.
1t was very painful, but some half dozen
of us used to take it in turns to ask him
to Join u.s. He was excellent company,
when we'd cheered him up a little. But
that was before his wife left him. After
that we never saw him there. -
eyes" said Bourne, "that was 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.
It was so sad story that they did not
dwell on it. But Ericsson went on:
''It sounds almost like paradox.
But really believe that while his first
success practically ruined him this
great blow nearly made him a man
again"
Philip Gaythorne observed regretful-
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 OBJ
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. twill 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?"
eyes; the play that we have come
down here to look for. 1t 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
he had done his best. I suppose he never
read you any of it for the same reason. :"
"Never," Bourne answered, "and I
didn t press him. I hate criticising un-
finished work. He used to talk Of it Of
ten enough, though, in the Hyde Park
greenroom. So far as could make out,
everybody he knew was to have a part
in it-just the sort of part he liked best.
He used to buttonhole everybody in
turn. 'Ah, me boy, lie would say, I've
got such part for you-a rattling part
lots of ''fat'' 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 a 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"
+ eyes, but also very carefully said
Gaythorne ''He was determined to
have every detail right. remember
him consulting me about the names he
would give his characters. -
ga good choice of names is a very
important consideration, interrupted
st. John Bourne
"I know it. There was to be strike
in Norman's play, and he spent a whole
afternoon i'll my chamber trying to
think Of good name with 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.
tAnd all the WHILE" said Bourne,
"the poor fellow was killing himself
with drink. wonder if he knew it. y
"He knew it we'll 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 in the state he was
in he could do no work without the
drink. 1t whipped up his Imagination
and took him out of the world Of COM
monplaces into which he had declined,
and to which he always tended to re-
lapse Sometimes I demonstrated with
him. He always listened patiently, and
he always made the same reply. 1T 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. In the old time ideas used to
come to him spontaneously. Now he
could only bring them back artistically
by drinking. Once, I remember, he took
down Carlyle's Life Of Schiller, and
showed me that wonderful passage where
the historian describes the poet sitting
in his workroom at jena wrecking his
health with stimulants to quicken the
working of his 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 eternity' That was his case, he
said. The drink might kill him, but ii
it only helped him to leave work OF
genius behind he didn't care. Then he
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 more, but felt instead that
the sacrifice of his health and life to sucE
an end was we'll worth the making"
He spoke with rare and wonderful
enthusiasm, which carried his listeners
with him. They sat thinking silently
for few minutes, and then st. Johr
! Bourne said:
"Ericson, shall produce that play. ,
Af5er . f17'tiar pause he ad ed,
81 viii put it 81 at heu9t- matinee
f-a, Toc-n G. c7-7rtep1- ~ stall 70 in