Connecticut western news., 1899-12-28
PRICE OF SUCCESS.
"Well, old fellow, you ought to be happy" said I.

"Well, old fellow, you ought to be happy" said I.
 "Why2" queried Holden laconically.
 "Why, indeed 2" exclaimedL After ten years of hard, patient toll you have, in the graceful language of the Gauls, arrived, or, in plain, colloquial Amer ican, you have got there with both feet Your first production is a big success; royalties are rolling in; man agers whom once you pursued in vain are now pursuing you, anxious to se- cure at your own terms the very plays that they formerly refused without reading. And I know you have plenty of them. According to my calculations, up to the time l went abroad two years ago, you must have at least barrel full of plays of all kinds-poetical, com ical, tragical-calculated to suit all tastes. Consequently all you have to do is to dip down into that barrel, bring up an old piece, place it and then sit back and draw your royalties. Why, my boy, you are retired and pensioned at 35, with fame and money at com mand and life practically before you. Why should you not be happyf"
 "You forget the price of success, said Holden bitterly.
 "Oh, of course, you have worked hard for all you now enjoy, but that's all over now, and you have the satisfac- tion of knowing that it's paid for"
 "Yes," said Holden almost sadly, "but you do not realize how dearly have paid for it."
 "Well, possibly not" said I half apologetically. "You know I was far away while you were putting in your last and probably your hardest licks, and I did not hear from you until the news of the phenomenal success of a new American playwright was cabled across the water. Why, you're interna- tionally famous, my boy, and you ought to be proud of it.
 'I am," said Holden, "but with my pride is mingled pang of regret that l shall never outgrow, however may i'm prove upon and make permanent, my present good fortune. As some one has said:
 Advancement limps on steps of pain; Success is not in flight elate;
 r We have to suffer just to gain
 The misery of being great
 "I do not know who wrote those lines, but whoever he was he brought that pearl of truth from the depths of bitter experience maybe something like mine.
 "Tell me about it, old fellow" said I sympathetically, for I saw that some real sorrow underlay his words.
 "Wen, Twill, !" said Holden. ''It is a subject I seldom refer to, for hate public condolences. But you are an old friend who knew me when my light was hidden under bushel and are not like those fickle, hattering moths who hutter about the latest flame. The meta phor is poor, for am not shining light even now, but already have had enough of sycophancy, and-well, you know what mean, old man.
 "When you left the country, I had | just about settled down to the dreary routine life of an editor, whom some | journalistic wit has described as "a re- porter with his legs worn out l had despaired of ever getting my plays ac- cepted and could foresee nothing but an endless round of grinding out cut and dried opinions for other men until l myself became as dry as they and was kicked out to make room for fresher material I had married, and of course we lived up to my salary-what news paper man does notf Then the baby came, and for time we lived even a little beyond it. As a consequence was forced to put my nose even closer to the grindstone and turn my spare hand to hack work in order to help out.
 ''I didn't mind the hard work The only regret was that it led to nothing and kept me away from my chosen work. The human mind can do only about as much as the body, and when all it's time is expended upon routine there is no energy left for original work. The fact that I gradually crawled out of debt and even laid by few dol lars was small compensation for the smashing of my dreams and the realiza- tion that at such gait could never succeed in the line I most desired.
 "Well, that was about the situation I was in when opportunity knocked at my door. The seasons production of a successful star proved failure too com | plete to be carpentered into even a semisuccess. The play had been relied upon to fill out the season, and he had nothing definite in reserve. AS it hap pened, I had outlined to him plot which impressed him, and he sent me word that if I would submit the com pleted play as soon as possible he would consider it. It was the vaguest possibil- ity that he might accept it if nothing better offered, yet felt that it was my first and in all probability my last chance.
 ''I could not possibly write the play in time and still retain my editorial position, yet I hesitated to resign the latter, for winter was at hand, and we needed my weekly salary. Then there was the probability that all my labor would go for naught, and I would be left out in the cold, for you know that ] in newspaperdom it is easier to resign l position than to get one, for when a man steps out there are always 20 oth- CTS ready and anxious to take his place, many of them just as good and some considerably cheaper.
 But the dear little wife, who never doubted my success, decided for me. So I resigned my desk and went to work with might and main on my play. I had scarcely been at it week before the baby fell i'll, and then our small savings began to fly. No one knows how money can go until his income is cut off and his expenses are increased, and very soon we were brought face tc face with the problem of how to live on nothing week Still I worked on, sandwiching in sketches and stories enough to keep us going between the acts of my play, until it seemed as if the pen were constantly in my hand and my brain was in whirl. We were never reduced to actual want, nor even