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Ballads of a Bohemian

<h2> BOOK TWO ~~ EARLY SUMMER </h2> <h2> I </h2> eant to be, My part divine June 1914. <h2> The Release </h2> To-day within a grog-shop near I saw a newly captured linnet, Who beat against his cage in fear, And fell exhausted every minute; And when I asked the fellow there If he to sell the bird were willing, He told me with a careless air That I could have it for a shilling. And so I bought it, cage and all (Although I went without my dinner), And where some trees were fairly tall And houses shrank and smoke was thinner, The tiny door I open threw, As down upon the grass I sank me: Poor little chap! How quick he flew . . . He didn't even wait to thank me. Life's like a cage; we beat the bars, We bruise our breasts, we struggle vainly; Up to the glory of the stars We strain with flutterings ungainly. And then—God opens wide the door; Our wondrous wings are arched for flying; We poise, we part, we sing, we soar . . . Light, freedom, love. . . . Fools call it—Dying. Yes, that wretched little bird haunted me. I had to let it go. Since I have seized my own liberty I am a fanatic for freedom. It is now a year ago I launched on my great adventure. I have had hard times, been hungry, cold, weary. I have worked harder than ever I did and discouragement has slapped me on the face. Yet the year has been the happiest of my life. And all because I am free. By reason of filthy money no one can say to me: Do this, or do that. "Master" doesn't exist in my vocabulary. I can look any man in the face and tell him to go to the devil. I belong to myself. I am not for sale. It's glorious to feel like that. It sweetens the dry crust and warms the heart in the icy wind. For that I will hunger and go threadbare; for that I will live austerely and deny myself all pleasure. After health, the best thing in life is freedom. Here is the last of my ballads. It is by way of being an experiment. Its theme is commonplace, its language that of everyday. It is a bit of realism in rhyme. <h2> The Wee Shop </h2> She risked her all, they told me, bravely sinking The pinched economies of thirty years; And there the little shop was, meek and shrinking, The sum of all her dreams and hopes and fears. Ere it was opened I would see them in it, The gray-haired dame, the daughter with her crutch; So fond, so happy, hoarding every minute, Like artists, for the final tender touch. The opening day! I'm sure that to their seeming Was never shop so wonderful as theirs; With pyramids of jam-jars rubbed to gleaming; Such vivid cans of peaches, prunes and pears; And chocolate, and biscuits in glass cases, And bon-bon bottles, many-hued and bright; Yet nothing half so radiant as their faces, Their eyes of hope, excitement and delight. I entered: how they waited all a-flutter! How awkwardly they weighed my acid-drops! And then with all the thanks a tongue could utter They bowed me from the kindliest of shops. I'm sure that night their customers they numbered; Discussed them all in happy, breathless speech; And though quite worn and weary, ere they slumbered, Sent heavenward a little prayer for each. And so I watched with interest redoubled That little shop, spent in it all I had; And when I saw it empty I was troubled, And when I saw them busy I was glad. And when I dared to ask how things were going, They told me, with a fine and gallant smile: "Not badly . . . slow at first . . . There's never knowing . . . 'Twill surely pick up in a little while." I'd often see them through the winter weather, Behind the shutters by a light's faint speck, Poring o'er books, their faces close together, The lame girl's arm around her mother's neck. They dressed their windows not one time but twenty, Each change more pinched, more desperately neat; Alas! I wondered if behind that plenty The two who owned it had enough to eat. Ah, who would dare to sing of tea and coffee? The sadness of a stock unsold and dead; The petty tragedy of melting toffee, The sordid pathos of stale gingerbread. Ignoble themes! And yet—those haggard faces! Within that little shop. . . . Oh, here I say One does not need to look in lofty places For tragic themes, they're round us every day. And so I saw their agony, their fighting, Their eyes of fear, their heartbreak, their despair; And there the little shop is, black and blighting, And all the world goes by and does not care. They say she sought her old employer's pity, Content to take the pittance he would give. The lame girl? yes, she's working in the city; She coughs a lot—she hasn't long to live. Last night MacBean introduced me to Saxon Dane the Poet. Truly, he is more like a blacksmith than a Bard—a big bearded man whose black eyes brood somberly or flash with sudden fire. We talked of Walt Whitman, and then of others. "The trouble with poetry," he said, "is that it is too exalted. It has a phraseology of its own; it selects themes that are quite outside of ordinary experience. As a medium of expression it fails to reach the great mass of the people." Then he added: "To hell with the great mass of the people! What have they got to do with it? Write to please yourself, as if not a single reader existed. The moment a man begins to be conscious of an audience he is artistically damned. You're not a Poet, I hope?" I meekly assured him I was a mere maker of verse. "Well," said he, "better good verse than middling poetry. And maybe even the humblest of rhymes has its uses. Happiness is happiness, whether it be inspired by a Rossetti sonnet or a ballad by G. R. Sims. Let each one who has something to say, say it in the best way he can, and abide the result. . . . After all," he went on, "what does it matter? We are living in a pygmy day. With Tennyson and Browning the line of great poets passed away, perhaps for ever. The world to-day is full of little minstrels, who echo one another and who pipe away tunefully enough. But with one exception they do not matter." I dared to ask who was his one exception. He answered, "Myself, of course." Here's a bit of light verse which it amused me to write to-day, as I sat in the sun on the terrace of the Closerie de Lilas: <h2> The Philistine and the Bohemian </h2> She was a Philistine spick and span, He was a bold Bohemian. She had the mode, and the last at that; He had a cape and a brigand hat. She was so riant and chic and trim; He was so shaggy, unkempt and grim. On the rue de la Paix she was wont to shine; The rue de la Ga�t� was more his line. She doted on Barclay and Dell and Caine; He quoted Mallarm� and Paul Verlaine. She was a triumph at Tango teas; At Vorticist's suppers he sought to please. She thought that Franz Lehar was utterly great; Of Strauss and Stravinsky he'd piously prate. She loved elegance, he loved art; They were as wide as the poles apart: Yet—Cupid and Caprice are hand and glove— They met at a dinner, they fell in love. Home he went to his garret bare, Thrilling with rapture, hope, despair. Swift he gazed in his looking-glass, Made a grimace and murmured: "Ass!" Seized his scissors and fiercely sheared, Severed his buccaneering beard; Grabbed his hair, and clip! clip! clip! Off came a bunch with every snip. Ran to a tailor's in startled state, Suits a dozen commanded straight; Coats and overcoats, pants in pairs, Everything that a dandy wears; Socks and collars, and shoes and ties, Everything that a dandy buys. Chums looked at him with wondering stare, Fancied they'd seen him before somewhere; A Brummell, a D'Orsay, a beau so fine, A shining, immaculate Philistine. Home she went in a raptured daze, Looked in a mirror with startled gaze, Didn't seem to be pleased at all; Savagely muttered: "Insipid Doll!" Clutched her hair and a pair of shears, Cropped and bobbed it behind the ears; Aimed at a wan and willowy-necked Sort of a Holman Hunt effect; Robed in subtile and sage-green tones, Like the dames of Rossetti and E. Burne-Jones; Girdled her garments billowing wide, Moved with an undulating glide; All her frivolous friends forsook, Cultivated a soulful look; Gushed in a voice with a creamy throb Over some weirdly Futurist daub— Did all, in short, that a woman can To be a consummate Bohemian. A year went past with its hopes and fears, A year that seemed like a dozen years. They met once more. . . . Oh, at last! At last! They rushed together, they stopped aghast. They looked at each other with blank dismay, They simply hadn't a word to say. He thought with a shiver: "Can this be she?" She thought with a shudder: "This can't be he?" This simpering dandy, so sleek and spruce; This languorous lily in garments loose; They sought to brace from the awful shock: Taking a seat, they tried to talk. She spoke of Bergson and Pater's prose, He prattled of dances and ragtime shows; She purred of pictures, Matisse, Cezanne, His tastes to the girls of Kirchner ran; She raved of Tchaikovsky and Caesar Franck, He owned that he was a jazz-band crank! They made no headway. Alas! alas! He thought her a bore, she thought him an ass. And so they arose and hurriedly fled; Perish Illusion, Romance, you're dead. He loved elegance, she loved art, Better at once to part, to part. And what is the moral of all this rot? Don't try to be what you know you're not. And if you're made on a muttonish plan, Don't seek to seem a Bohemian; And if to the goats your feet incline, Don't try to pass for a Philistine. <h2> II </h2> A Small Cafe in a Side Street, June 1914. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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