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Ballads of a Bohemian

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<h2> II </h2> <h2> Chez Moi, Montparnasse, </h2> <h3> The same evening. </h3> To-day is an anniversary. A year ago to-day I kicked over an office stool and came to Paris thinking to make a living by my pen. I was twenty then, and in my pocket I had twenty pounds. Of that, my ten sous are all that remain. And so to-night I am going to spend them, not prudently on bread, but prodigally on beer. As I stroll down the Boul' Mich' the lingering light has all the exquisite tenderness of violet; the trees are in their first translucent green; beneath them the lamps are lit with purest gold, and from the Little Luxembourg comes a silver jangle of tiny voices. Taking the gay side of the street, I enter a cafe. Although it isn't its true name, I choose to call my cafe— <h2> L'Escargot D'Or </h2> O Tavern of the Golden Snail! Ten sous have I, so I'll regale; Ten sous your amber brew to sip (Eight for the bock and two the tip), And so I'll sit the evening long, And smoke my pipe and watch the throng, The giddy crowd that drains and drinks, I'll watch it quiet as a sphinx; And who among them all shall buy For ten poor sous such joy as I? As I who, snugly tucked away, Look on it all as on a play, A frolic scene of love and fun, To please an audience of One. O Tavern of the Golden Snail! You've stuff indeed for many a tale. All eyes, all ears, I nothing miss: Two lovers lean to clasp and kiss; The merry students sing and shout, The nimble garcons dart about; Lo! here come Mimi and Musette With: "S'il vous plait, une cigarette?" Marcel and Rudolf, Shaunard too, Behold the old rapscallion crew, With flowing tie and shaggy head . . . Who says Bohemia is dead? Oh shades of Murger! prank and clown, And I will watch and write it down. O Tavern of the Golden Snail! What crackling throats have gulped your ale! What sons of Fame from far and near Have glowed and mellowed in your cheer! Within this corner where I sit Banville and Copp�e clashed their wit; And hither too, to dream and drain, And drown despair, came poor Verlaine. Here Wilde would talk and Synge would muse, Maybe like me with just ten sous. Ah! one is lucky, is one not? With ghosts so rare to drain a pot! So may your custom never fail, O Tavern of the Golden Snail! There! my pipe is out. Let me light it again and consider. I have no illusions about myself. I am not fool enough to think I am a poet, but I have a knack of rhyme and I love to make verses. Mine is a tootling, tin-whistle music. Humbly and afar I follow in the footsteps of Praed and Lampson, of Field and Riley, hoping that in time my Muse may bring me bread and butter. So far, however, it has been all kicks and no coppers. And to-night I am at the end of my tether. I wish I knew where to-morrow's breakfast was coming from. Well, since rhyming's been my ruin, let me rhyme to the bitter end. <h2> It Is Later Than You Think </h2> Lone amid the cafe's cheer, Sad of heart am I to-night; Dolefully I drink my beer, But no single line I write. There's the wretched rent to pay, Yet I glower at pen and ink: Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray, It is later than you think! Hello! there's a pregnant phrase. Bravo! let me write it down; Hold it with a hopeful gaze, Gauge it with a fretful frown; Tune it to my lyric lyre . . . Ah! upon starvation's brink, How the words are dark and dire: It is later than you think. Weigh them well. . . . Behold yon band, Students drinking by the door, Madly merry, bock in hand, Saucers stacked to mark their score. Get you gone, you jolly scamps; Let your parting glasses clink; Seek your long neglected lamps: It is later than you think. Look again: yon dainty blonde, All allure and golden grace, Oh so willing to respond Should you turn a smiling face. Play your part, poor pretty doll; Feast and frolic, pose and prink; There's the Morgue to end it all, And it's later than you think. Yon's a playwright—mark his face, Puffed and purple, tense and tired; Pasha-like he holds his place, Hated, envied and admired. How you gobble life, my friend; Wine, and woman soft and pink! Well, each tether has its end: Sir, it's later than you think. See yon living scarecrow pass With a wild and wolfish stare At each empty absinthe glass, As if he saw Heaven there. Poor damned wretch, to end your pain There is still the Greater Drink. Yonder waits the sanguine Seine . . . It is later than you think. Lastly, you who read; aye, you Who this very line may scan: Think of all you planned to do . . . Have you done the best you can? See! the tavern lights are low; Black's the night, and how you shrink! God! and is it time to go? Ah! the clock is always slow; It is later than you think; Sadly later than you think; Far, far later than you think. Scarcely do I scribble that last line on the back of an old envelope when a voice hails me. It is a fellow free-lance, a short-story man called MacBean. He is having a feast of Marennes and he asks me to join him. MacBean is a Scotsman with the soul of an Irishman. He has a keen, lean, spectacled face, and if it were not for his gray hair he might be taken for a student of theology. However, there is nothing of the Puritan in MacBean. He loves wine and women, and money melts in his fingers. He has lived so long in the Quarter he looks at life from the Parisian angle. His knowledge of literature is such that he might be a Professor, but he would rather be a vagabond of letters. We talk shop. We discuss the American short story, but MacBean vows they do these things better in France. He says that some of the contes printed every day in the Journal are worthy of Maupassant. After that he buys more beer, and we roam airily over the fields of literature, plucking here and there a blossom of quotation. A fine talk, vivid and eager. It puts me into a kind of glow. MacBean pays the bill from a handful of big notes, and the thought of my own empty pockets for a moment damps me. However, when we rise to go, it is well after midnight, and I am in a pleasant daze. The rest of the evening may be summed up in the following jingle: <h2> Noctambule </h2> Zut! it's two o'clock. See! the lights are jumping. Finish up your bock, Time we all were humping. Waiters stack the chairs, Pile them on the tables; Let us to our lairs Underneath the gables. Up the old Boul' Mich' Climb with steps erratic. Steady . . . how I wish I was in my attic! Full am I with cheer; In my heart the joy stirs; Couldn't be the beer, Must have been the oysters. In obscene array Garbage cans spill over; How I wish that they Smelled as sweet as clover! Charing women wait; Cafes drop their shutters; Rats perambulate Up and down the gutters. Down the darkened street Market carts are creeping; Horse with wary feet, Red-faced driver sleeping. Loads of vivid greens, Carrots, leeks, potatoes, Cabbages and beans, Turnips and tomatoes. Pair of dapper chaps, Cigarettes and sashes, Stare at me, perhaps Desperate Apach�s. "Needn't bother me, Jolly well you know it; Parceque je suis Quartier Latin po�te. "Give you villanelles, Madrigals and lyrics; Ballades and rondels, Odes and panegyrics. Poet pinched and poor, Pricked by cold and hunger; Trouble's troubadour, Misery's balladmonger." Think how queer it is! Every move I'm making, Cosmic gravity's Center I am shaking; Oh, how droll to feel (As I now am feeling), Even as I reel, All the world is reeling. Reeling too the stars, Neptune and Uranus, Jupiter and Mars, Mercury and Venus; Suns and moons with me, As I'm homeward straying, All in sympathy Swaying, swaying, swaying. Lord! I've got a head. Well, it's not surprising. I must gain my bed Ere the sun be rising; When the merry lark In the sky is soaring, I'll refuse to hark, I'll be snoring, snoring. Strike a sulphur match . . . Ha! at last my garret. Fumble at the latch, Close the door and bar it. Bed, you graciously Wait, despite my scorning . . . So, bibaciously Mad old world, good morning. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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