The Lambertville record. [volume] (Lambertville, N.J.) 1872-1968, 1899-10-04
NOT FOR PUBLICATION.
An Author Gets an Inspiration
From an Unexpected
Source.
lAssAAssass q a q = a J, q d sa,s.ss

round. l wlsh-thcre, l wish to God
I'd never learned how to wrltet'
And yet ii had paid him In solid coin,
so far. One of his minor dreams was
realized; the window of his writing
room overlooked suburban roadway
along which jarrlng wheels seldom
ratified; he had got away from the
whir and drone of the town. where his
nerves had been at tension all day
long He could compose in peace. And
yet he sat with the bitter, idle stare,
clutching n dry pen.
The door behind creakcd; woman
glidcd In on tiptoe. Don't start-It's
only L." she whispered.
Don't start!' He threw down the
pen without turning. Its all starts
or the strain of expecting them. I'm
sick of it. | tell you sick of it all"
What is the mattcr?" She had paus-
ed half way. with hands together.
Cant you writc?'
Write! I've nothing to write I'm
drained dry. And promised tragic
story with half sneer -"for That
Society sun. Traglci What's the
tlme?'
at must be nearly G."
six? Dark In another hour-dusk
now! I've done nothing. And you you
never attempt TO help me- by so much
as wordn'
"Never help yon?" she echoed and
repeated 1t to herself Il never help
him! But when have you asked such n
thlng2 What good would be my ideas?"
ooh. not much Women seldom have
real ideas They're fitting superfclall-
ties, Still
long silence. The door creakcd
again, but he knew she had only closed
1t and was stll lowering behind him.
lie was somewhat surprised, but would
not turn, vaguely conscious of the
sneer's hollowness Then
Il never help YOU" she repeated
calmly. "Would you like me to tryp
Perhaps something has Just come into
my mind. II is silly, maybe, as | tell
1t; but you, my husband, might make
1t clever and interesting. You say
your stories are always twaddle as you
first set them down"
"Do II Well, what Is it?' he said,
staring across at the opposite roofs.
"1his situation Is novel. Go on. Never
mind rs long rs there Is anything Mt all
In It,"
"There Is there Is woman's heart
In 1t, | think" she whispered. "Is that
any goodY
OH he said. Her voice had tailed
of q oil, hnI Int 20
afraid of the sneer. "Wcll, there usual
ly is; that's one of the component
parts of the average story. Even humor
Is the brighter for tragedy lurking in
the background, you know. Anything
In the hearth That's the point. Yes;
anything in this hearth"
Another silence. Couldn't | tell you
Just as 1t came to me, thenW she said.
I'm not clever enough to know. It's
more of sketch, perhaps. II imagn-
ed two lovers, very dear lovers. They
got married, and there was beautiful
world before them, with such peace
at the end, II they knew! Make the
man an artist. He lived for his art
The girl-thc girl was only just n girl;
she lived for the man. She hung on
his every word, you might say; she
prayed for his success when he was
never there to hear, thought for him
In ways that he would never know and
checked her singing and moved softly
so that he should never be disturbed ut
his work. You're not writing. Is It so
sillyY
"Go on" he whispered. There
there's nothing to write yet"
THAT went on for years The man,
deeper and deeper In his work, never
saw that his wife was changing, that
the light had gone out of her eyes
lie forgot all he had meant to be-for-
got after n time even to kiss her, and
the glrl-she could never bring herself
to remind hlm-eh? She stlll lived
only for him. but he never cared what
she wore, never thought that her work
might be hard in its little way, and
that there are some women for whom
years of such silence and loneliness
spells death-or worse. She was al
ways crying at first and never dared to
tell him why If he did not see for him
self and kept out of his way so that
his mind should not be spoiled for
work And he-say that he thought 1t
was something else and spoke harsh
ly and sneercd and at last got so that
he lived in world Of his own and
wouldn't open his door when when he
knew that her heart was bursting out
side, longing for one kind word again
ORR something Ike that Cnuld Won
begin anything with thatY'
No answer. She could not see, but
the mans outward stare was as II II
would never again relax. She went
on little faster, her voice taking a
thrlll-just as though his silence I'm
piled that there might be real dramatic
possibilities In her small inspiration.
II think my husband could-yesl The
world Is used to seeing the man grow
Indifferent and the woman cold and
pale; but you-you might take the trag-
edy as II is within the four walls and
make 1t live and throb In there. You
might put 1t that at first the mans
mistake was In always straining for
ward to his goal, forgetting that the
happiest time Is now-forgetting how.
when he looks at last he will not find
Just the same laughing girl as he mar
ried. Often he left her, we will say;
he wanted cheerful faces and relaxa-
ton after hls work, and the wife was
only like ghost creeping about the
alternative TO a broken heart was n