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Ballads of a Bohemian

<h2> BALLADS OF A BOHEMIAN </h2> <h2> Prelude </h2> Alas! upon some starry height, The Gods of Excellence to please, This hand of mine will never smite The Harp of High Serenities. Mere minstrel of the street am I, To whom a careless coin you fling; But who, beneath the bitter sky, Blue-lipped, yet insolent of eye, Can shrill a song of Spring; A song of merry mansard days, The cheery chimney-tops among; Of rolics and of roundelays When we were young . . . when we were young; A song of love and lilac nights, Of wit, of wisdom and of wine; Of Folly whirling on the Heights, Of hunger and of hope divine; Of Blanche, Suzette and Celestine, And all that gay and tender band Who shared with us the fat, the lean, The hazard of Illusion-land; When scores of Philistines we slew As mightily with brush and pen We sought to make the world anew, And scorned the gods of other men; When we were fools divinely wise, Who held it rapturous to strive; When Art was sacred in our eyes, And it was Heav'n to be alive. . . . O days of glamor, glory, truth, To you to-night I raise my glass; O freehold of immortal youth, Bohemia, the lost, alas! O laughing lads who led the romp, Respectable you've grown, I'm told; Your heads you bow to power and pomp, You've learned to know the worth of gold. O merry maids who shared our cheer, Your eyes are dim, your locks are gray; And as you scrub I sadly fear Your daughters speed the dance to-day. O windmill land and crescent moon! O Columbine and Pierrette! To you my old guitar I tune Ere I forget, ere I forget. . . . So come, good men who toil and tire, Who smoke and sip the kindly cup, Ring round about the tavern fire Ere yet you drink your liquor up; And hear my simple songs of earth, Of youth and truth and living things; Of poverty and proper mirth, Of rags and rich imaginings; Of cock-a-hoop, blue-heavened days, Of hearts elate and eager breath, Of wonder, worship, pity, praise, Of sorrow, sacrifice and death; Of lusting, laughter, passion, pain, Of lights that lure and dreams that thrall . . . And if a golden word I gain, Oh, kindly folks, God save you all! And if you shake your heads in blame . . . Good friends, God love you all the same. <h2> BOOK ONE ~~ SPRING </h2> <h2> I </h2> Montparnasse, April 1914. All day the sun has shone into my little attic, a bitter sunshine that brightened yet did not warm. And so as I toiled and toiled doggedly enough, many were the looks I cast at the three faggots I had saved to cook my evening meal. Now, however, my supper is over, my pipe alight, and as I stretch my legs before the embers I have at last a glow of comfort, a glimpse of peace. <h2> My Garret </h2> Here is my Garret up five flights of stairs; Here's where I deal in dreams and ply in fancies, Here is the wonder-shop of all my wares, My sounding sonnets and my red romances. Here's where I challenge Fate and ring my rhymes, And grope at glory—aye, and starve at times. Here is my Stronghold: stout of heart am I, Greeting each dawn as songful as a linnet; And when at night on yon poor bed I lie (Blessing the world and every soul that's in it), Here's where I thank the Lord no shadow bars My skylight's vision of the valiant stars. Here is my Palace tapestried with dreams. Ah! though to-night ten sous are all my treasure, While in my gaze immortal beauty gleams, Am I not dowered with wealth beyond all measure? Though in my ragged coat my songs I sing, King of my soul, I envy not the king. Here is my Haven: it's so quiet here; Only the scratch of pen, the candle's flutter; Shabby and bare and small, but O how dear! Mark you—my table with my work a-clutter, My shelf of tattered books along the wall, My bed, my broken chair—that's nearly all. Only four faded walls, yet mine, all mine. Oh, you fine folks, a pauper scorns your pity. Look, where above me stars of rapture shine; See, where below me gleams the siren city . . . Am I not rich?—a millionaire no less, If wealth be told in terms of Happiness. Ten sous. . . . I think one can sing best of poverty when one is holding it at arm's length. I'm sure that when I wrote these lines, fortune had for a moment tweaked me by the nose. To-night, however, I am truly down to ten sous. It is for that I have stayed in my room all day, rolled in my blankets and clutching my pen with clammy fingers. I must work, work, work. I must finish my book before poverty crushes me. I am not only writing for my living but for my life. Even to-day my Muse was mutinous. For hours and hours anxiously I stared at a paper that was blank; nervously I paced up and down my garret; bitterly I flung myself on my bed. Then suddenly it all came. Line after line I wrote with hardly a halt. So I made another of my Ballads of the Boulevards. Here it is: <h2> Julot the Apache </h2> You've heard of Julot the apache, and Gigolette, his m�me. . . . Montmartre was their hunting-ground, but Belville was their home. A little chap just like a boy, with smudgy black mustache,— Yet there was nothing juvenile in Julot the apache. From head to heel as tough as steel, as nimble as a cat, With every trick of twist and kick, a master of savate. And Gigolette was tall and fair, as stupid as a cow, With three combs in the greasy hair she banged upon her brow. You'd see her on the Place Pigalle on any afternoon, A primitive and strapping wench as brazen as the moon. And yet there is a tale that's told of Clichy after dark, And two gendarmes who swung their arms with Julot for a mark. And oh, but they'd have got him too; they banged and blazed away, When like a flash a woman leapt between them and their prey. She took the medicine meant for him; she came down with a crash . . . "Quick now, and make your get-away, O Julot the apache!" . . . But no! He turned, ran swiftly back, his arms around her met; They nabbed him sobbing like a kid, and kissing Gigolette. Now I'm a reckless painter chap who loves a jamboree, And one night in Cyrano's bar I got upon a spree; And there were trollops all about, and crooks of every kind, But though the place was reeling round I didn't seem to mind. Till down I sank, and all was blank when in the bleary dawn I woke up in my studio to find—my money gone; Three hundred francs I'd scraped and squeezed to pay my quarter's rent. "Some one has pinched my wad," I wailed; "it never has been spent." And as I racked my brains to seek how I could raise some more, Before my cruel landlord kicked me cowering from the door: A knock . . . "Come in," I gruffly groaned; I did not raise my head, Then lo! I heard a husky voice, a swift and silky tread: "You got so blind, last night, mon vieux, I collared all your cash— Three hundred francs. . . . There! Nom de Dieu," said Julot the apache. And that was how I came to know Julot and Gigolette, And we would talk and drink a bock, and smoke a cigarette. And I would meditate upon the artistry of crime, And he would tell of cracking cribs and cops and doing time; Or else when he was flush of funds he'd carelessly explain He'd biffed some bloated bourgeois on the border of the Seine. So gentle and polite he was, just like a man of peace, And not a desperado and the terror of the police. Now one day in a bistro that's behind the Place Vend�me I came on Julot the apache, and Gigolette his m�me. And as they looked so very grave, says I to them, says I, "Come on and have a little glass, it's good to rinse the eye. You both look mighty serious; you've something on the heart." "Ah, yes," said Julot the apache, "we've something to impart. When such things come to folks like us, it isn't very gay . . . It's Gigolette—she tells me that a gosse is on the way." Then Gigolette, she looked at me with eyes like stones of gall: "If we were honest folks," said she, "I wouldn't mind at all. But then . . . you know the life we lead; well, anyway I mean (That is, providing it's a girl) to call her Angeline." "Cheer up," said I; "it's all in life. There's gold within the dross. Come on, we'll drink another verre to Angeline the gosse." And so the weary winter passed, and then one April morn The worthy Julot came at last to say the babe was born. "I'd like to chuck it in the Seine," he sourly snarled, "and yet I guess I'll have to let it live, because of Gigolette." I only laughed, for sure I saw his spite was all a bluff, And he was prouder than a prince behind his manner gruff. Yet every day he'd blast the brat with curses deep and grim, And swear to me that Gigolette no longer thought of him. And then one night he dropped the mask; his eyes were sick with dread, And when I offered him a smoke he groaned and shook his head: "I'm all upset; it's Angeline . . . she's covered with a rash . . . She'll maybe die, my little gosse," cried Julot the apache. But Angeline, I joy to say, came through the test all right, Though Julot, so they tell me, watched beside her day and night. And when I saw him next, says he: "Come up and dine with me. We'll buy a beefsteak on the way, a bottle and some brie." And so I had a merry night within his humble home, And laughed with Angeline the gosse and Gigolette the m�me. And every time that Julot used a word the least obscene, How Gigolette would frown at him and point to Angeline: Oh, such a little innocent, with hair of silken floss, I do not wonder they were proud of Angeline the gosse. And when her arms were round his neck, then Julot says to me: "I must work harder now, mon vieux, since I've to work for three." He worked so very hard indeed, the police dropped in one day, And for a year behind the bars they put him safe away. So dark and silent now, their home; they'd gone—I wondered where, Till in a laundry near I saw a child with shining hair; And o'er the tub a strapping wench, her arms in soapy foam; Lo! it was Angeline the gosse, and Gigolette the m�me. And so I kept an eye on them and saw that all went right, Until at last came Julot home, half crazy with delight. And when he'd kissed them both, says he: "I've had my fill this time. I'm on the honest now, I am; I'm all fed up with crime. You mark my words, the page I turn is going to be clean, I swear it on the head of her, my little Angeline." And so, to finish up my tale, this morning as I strolled Along the boulevard I heard a voice I knew of old. I saw a rosy little man with walrus-like mustache . . . I stopped, I stared. . . . By all the gods! 'twas Julot the apache. "I'm in the garden way," he said, "and doing mighty well; I've half an acre under glass, and heaps of truck to sell. Come out and see. Oh come, my friend, on Sunday, wet or shine . . . Say!—it's the First Communion of that little girl of mine." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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