Morris tribune., 1903-10-31

Sand get you call the man your
evil genius 2"
sizes. I still call the man my
evil genius because lost my soul
through him-my soul as an artist,
that was so much to me"
I started. l could not under
stand. But, with an impetuous I'M
patience, Everard Deane fastened
to make clear his meaning.
'sYou call yourself an artist, and
you do not understand? Do you
imagine that an artist can NEEDLE
with these sordid actualities and not
find his soul defled by them? Do
you suppose that he will sit down
quietly to toll for doubtful gains
Indefinitely when he knows that a
sudden turn of the market may put
hundreds in his pocket? No, no,
my friend, it is not possible. What
does he do? Why, he buys every
edition of the evening paper to see
the prices. He runs into his club
to watch the tape. He drives up to
the city in working hours to ask
his broker whether he ought not to
sell. That is howeit was in my case.
That is how it must be in every
case. My balance at the bank was
growing, but while it grew my soul
my artists soul, in which I glo-
ried so-was dying, crushed out of
it's bright existence by the dead
weight of material cares. And so
things went until / stood, as it we're,
at the parting, of the ways and swore
that l would make my choice"
'sYour choice?"
'sMy choice between the artistic
and the material life. / meant to
make it dramatically too. There
was still enough Of the artist left
in ME for that. It was at midnight,
in nv chambers in the Temple. l
took the manuscript Of my half fin
ished NOVELETTE, novel that was to
make me famous the desk
and placed it on the table. Beside,
it l laid heap of share certificates
and transfer forms and contract
notes. Between the two piles there
stood a lighted candle. One of
them was to be burned to ashes in
its hame-one of them, and at this
solemn hour [ was to determine
which and by determining decide
the whole course of my future life"
He paused I had to press him
before he would proceed.
"And then you burned"
'Neither," was his unexpected
answer. ''Neither, for I could not
decide. Ny novel went back into
the drawer it came from to wait
there till the old JOY in the higher
life came back to me. And that JOY
never came. Even to this hour it
has not come. I look back to the
old days. / long for them, but |
know quite well that they will not
return to me. The greed for gain,
its ceaseless worries and anxieties,
has killed my soul, and that is why
I tell you that I am a failure"
There was a melancholy, at once
incredible and convincing, in his ac-
cents. Unless there were woman
in the case | would not have be-
lieved it possible for man SO well
to do to look so miserable. l sought
to say something that might lift
him out of his dependency.
t'Failure or no failure, at least
you can go to Monte Carlo in the
winter" l suggested.
81 know. I'm going next week
with Morrison Parker" Everard
Deane replied.
And then he shook his head slow
~ and shrugged his shoulders gloom
lily, as though to say that the Joy
Of sojourning on the Riviera while
we were toiling in the fogs was
nothing to the price that he had had
to pay for it.
And as | drove home that night
I tried to persuade myself that ne
was right.
The Effect of Repetition.
The sound Of a door hell NAV not