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Ballads of a Bohemian

<h2> V </h2> My Garret, Montparnasse, June 1914. <h2> My Neighbors </h2> To rest my fagged brain now and then, When wearied of my proper labors, I lay aside my lagging pen And get to thinking on my neighbors; For, oh, around my garret den There's woe and poverty a-plenty, And life's so interesting when A lad is only two-and-twenty. Now, there's that artist gaunt and wan, A little card his door adorning; It reads: "Je ne suis pour personne", A very frank and fitting warning. I fear he's in a sorry plight; He starves, I think, too proud to borrow, I hear him moaning every night: Maybe they'll find him dead to-morrow. <h2> Room 4: The Painter Chap </h2> He gives me such a bold and curious look, That young American across the way, As if he'd like to put me in a book (Fancies himself a poet, so they say.) Ah well! He'll make no "document" of me. I lock my door. Ha! ha! Now none shall see. . . . Pictures, just pictures piled from roof to floor, Each one a bit of me, a dream fulfilled, A vision of the beauty I adore, My own poor glimpse of glory, passion-thrilled . . . But now my money's gone, I paint no more. For three days past I have not tasted food; The jeweled colors run . . . I reel, I faint; They tell me that my pictures are no good, Just crude and childish daubs, a waste of paint. I burned to throw on canvas all I saw— Twilight on water, tenderness of trees, Wet sands at sunset and the smoking seas, The peace of valleys and the mountain's awe: Emotion swayed me at the thought of these. I sought to paint ere I had learned to draw, And that's the trouble. . . . Ah well! here am I, Facing my failure after struggle long; And there they are, my croutes that none will buy (And doubtless they are right and I am wrong); Well, when one's lost one's faith it's time to die. . . . This knife will do . . . and now to slash and slash; Rip them to ribands, rend them every one, My dreams and visions—tear and stab and gash, So that their crudeness may be known to none; Poor, miserable daubs! Ah! there, it's done. . . . And now to close my little window tight. Lo! in the dusking sky, serenely set, The evening star is like a beacon bright. And see! to keep her tender tryst with night How Paris veils herself in violet. . . . Oh, why does God create such men as I?— All pride and passion and divine desire, Raw, quivering nerve-stuff and devouring fire, Foredoomed to failure though they try and try; Abortive, blindly to destruction hurled; Unfound, unfit to grapple with the world. . . . And now to light my wheezy jet of gas; Chink up the window-crannies and the door, So that no single breath of air may pass; So that I'm sealed air-tight from roof to floor. There, there, that's done; and now there's nothing more. . . . Look at the city's myriad lamps a-shine; See, the calm moon is launching into space . . . There will be darkness in these eyes of mine Ere it can climb to shine upon my face. Oh, it will find such peace upon my face! . . . City of Beauty, I have loved you well, A laugh or two I've had, but many a sigh; I've run with you the scale from Heav'n to Hell. Paris, I love you still . . . good-by, good-by. Thus it all ends—unhappily, alas! It's time to sleep, and now . . . blow out the gas. . . . Now there's that little midinette Who goes to work each morning daily; I choose to call her Blithe Babette, Because she's always humming gaily; And though the Goddess "Comme-il-faut" May look on her with prim expression, It's Pagan Paris where, you know, The queen of virtues is Discretion. <h2> Room 6: The Little Workgirl </h2> Three gentlemen live close beside me— A painter of pictures bizarre, A poet whose virtues might guide me, A singer who plays the guitar; And there on my lintel is Cupid; I leave my door open, and yet These gentlemen, aren't they stupid! They never make love to Babette. I go to the shop every morning; I work with my needle and thread; Silk, satin and velvet adorning, Then luncheon on coffee and bread. Then sewing and sewing till seven; Or else, if the order I get, I toil and I toil till eleven— And such is the day of Babette. It doesn't seem cheerful, I fancy; The wage is unthinkably small; And yet there is one thing I can say: I keep a bright face through it all. I chaff though my head may be aching; I sing a gay song to forget; I laugh though my heart may be breaking— It's all in the life of Babette. That gown, O my lady of leisure, You begged to be "finished in haste." It gives you an exquisite pleasure, Your lovers remark on its taste. Yet . . . oh, the poor little white faces, The tense midnight toil and the fret . . . I fear that the foam of its laces Is salt with the tears of Babette. It takes a brave heart to be cheery With no gleam of hope in the sky; The future's so utterly dreary, I'm laughing—in case I should cry. And if, where the gay lights are glowing, I dine with a man I have met, And snatch a bright moment—who's going To blame a poor little Babette? And you, Friend beyond all the telling, Although you're an ocean away, Your pictures, they tell me, are selling, You're married and settled, they say. Such happiness one wouldn't barter; Yet, oh, do you never regret The Springtide, the roses, Montmartre, Youth, poverty, love and—Babette? That blond-haired chap across the way With sunny smile and voice so mellow, He sings in some cheap cabaret, Yet what a gay and charming fellow! His breath with garlic may be strong, What matters it? his laugh is jolly; His day he gives to sleep and song: His night's made up of song and folly. Room 5: The Concert Singer I'm one of these haphazard chaps Who sit in cafes drinking; A most improper taste, perhaps, Yet pleasant, to my thinking. For, oh, I hate discord and strife; I'm sadly, weakly human; And I do think the best of life Is wine and song and woman. Now, there's that youngster on my right Who thinks himself a poet, And so he toils from morn to night And vainly hopes to show it; And there's that dauber on my left, Within his chamber shrinking— He looks like one of hope bereft; He lives on air, I'm thinking. But me, I love the things that are, My heart is always merry; I laugh and tune my old guitar: Sing ho! and hey-down-derry. Oh, let them toil their lives away To gild a tawdry era, But I'll be gay while yet I may: Sing tira-lira-lira. I'm sure you know that picture well, A monk, all else unheeding, Within a bare and gloomy cell A musty volume reading; While through the window you can see In sunny glade entrancing, With cap and bells beneath a tree A jester dancing, dancing. Which is the fool and which the sage? I cannot quite discover; But you may look in learning's page And I'll be laughter's lover. For this our life is none too long, And hearts were made for gladness; Let virtue lie in joy and song, The only sin be sadness. So let me troll a jolly air, Come what come will to-morrow; I'll be no cabotin of care, No souteneur of sorrow. Let those who will indulge in strife, To my most merry thinking, The true philosophy of life Is laughing, loving, drinking. And there's that weird and ghastly hag Who walks head bent, with lips a-mutter; With twitching hands and feet that drag, And tattered skirts that sweep the gutter. An outworn harlot, lost to hope, With staring eyes and hair that's hoary I hear her gibber, dazed with dope: I often wonder what's her story. <h2> Room 7: The Coco-Fiend </h2> I look at no one, me; I pass them on the stair; Shadows! I don't see; Shadows! everywhere. Haunting, taunting, staring, glaring, Shadows! I don't care. Once my room I gain Then my life begins. Shut the door on pain; How the Devil grins! Grin with might and main; Grin and grin in vain; Here's where Heav'n begins: Cocaine! Cocaine! A whiff! Ah, that's the thing. How it makes me gay! Now I want to sing, Leap, laugh, play. Ha! I've had my fling! Mistress of a king In my day. Just another snuff . . . Oh, the blessed stuff! How the wretched room Rushes from my sight; Misery and gloom Melt into delight; Fear and death and doom Vanish in the night. No more cold and pain, I am young again, Beautiful again, Cocaine! Cocaine! Oh, I was made to be good, to be good, For a true man's love and a life that's sweet; Fireside blessings and motherhood. Little ones playing around my feet. How it all unfolds like a magic screen, Tender and glowing and clear and glad, The wonderful mother I might have been, The beautiful children I might have had; Romping and laughing and shrill with glee, Oh, I see them now and I see them plain. Darlings! Come nestle up close to me, You comfort me so, and you're just . . . Cocaine. It's Life that's all to blame: We can't do what we will; She robes us with her shame, She crowns us with her ill. I do not care, because I see with bitter calm, Life made me what I was, Life makes me what I am. Could I throw back the years, It all would be the same; Hunger and cold and tears, Misery, fear and shame, And then the old refrain, Cocaine! Cocaine! A love-child I, so here my mother came, Where she might live in peace with none to blame. And how she toiled! Harder than any slave, What courage! patient, hopeful, tender, brave. We had a little room at Lavilette, So small, so neat, so clean, I see it yet. Poor mother! sewing, sewing late at night, Her wasted face beside the candlelight, This Paris crushed her. How she used to sigh! And as I watched her from my bed I knew She saw red roofs against a primrose sky And glistening fields and apples dimmed with dew. Hard times we had. We counted every sou, We sewed sacks for a living. I was quick . . . Four busy hands to work instead of two. Oh, we were happy there, till she fell sick. . . . My mother lay, her face turned to the wall, And I, a girl of sixteen, fair and tall, Sat by her side, all stricken with despair, Knelt by her bed and faltered out a prayer. A doctor's order on the table lay, Medicine for which, alas! I could not pay; Medicine to save her life, to soothe her pain. I sought for something I could sell, in vain . . . All, all was gone! The room was cold and bare; Gone blankets and the cloak I used to wear; Bare floor and wall and cupboard, every shelf— Nothing that I could sell . . . except myself. I sought the street, I could not bear To hear my mother moaning there. I clutched the paper in my hand. 'Twas hard. You cannot understand . . . I walked as martyr to the flame, Almost exalted in my shame. They turned, who heard my voiceless cry, "For Sale, a virgin, who will buy?" And so myself I fiercely sold, And clutched the price, a piece of gold. Into a pharmacy I pressed; I took the paper from my breast. I gave my money . . . how it gleamed! How precious to my eyes it seemed! And then I saw the chemist frown, Quick on the counter throw it down, Shake with an angry look his head: "Your louis d'or is bad," he said. Dazed, crushed, I went into the night, I clutched my gleaming coin so tight. No, no, I could not well believe That any one could so deceive. I tried again and yet again— Contempt, suspicion and disdain; Always the same reply I had: "Get out of this. Your money's bad." Heart broken to the room I crept, To mother's side. All still . . . she slept . . . I bent, I sought to raise her head . . . "Oh, God, have pity!" she was dead. That's how it all began. Said I: Revenge is sweet. So in my guilty span I've ruined many a man. They've groveled at my feet, I've pity had for none; I've bled them every one. Oh, I've had interest for That worthless louis d'or. But now it's over; see, I care for no one, me; Only at night sometimes In dreams I hear the chimes Of wedding-bells and see A woman without stain With children at her knee. Ah, how you comfort me, Cocaine! . . . <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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