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Ballads of a Bohemian

<h2> BOOK THREE ~~ LATE SUMMER </h2> <h2> I </h2> The Omnium Bar, near the Bourse, Late July 1914. MacBean, before he settled down to the manufacture of mercantile fiction, had ideas of a nobler sort, which bore their fruit in a slender book of poems. In subject they are either erotic, mythologic, or descriptive of nature. So polished are they that the mind seems to slide over them: so faultless in form that the critics hailed them with highest praise, and as many as a hundred copies were sold. Saxon Dane, too, has published a book of poems, but he, on the other hand, defies tradition to an eccentric degree. Originality is his sin. He strains after it in every line. I must confess I think much of the free verse he writes is really prose, and a good deal of it blank verse chopped up into odd lengths. He talks of assonance and color, of stress and pause and accent, and bewilders me with his theories. He and MacBean represent two extremes, and at night, as we sit in the Cafe du D�me, they have the hottest of arguments. As for me, I listen with awe, content that my medium is verse, and that the fashions of Hood, Thackeray and Bret Harte are the fashions of to-day. Of late I have been doing light stuff, "fillers" for MacBean. Here are three of my specimens: <h2> The Philanderer </h2> Oh, have you forgotten those afternoons With riot of roses and amber skies, When we thrilled to the joy of a million Junes, And I sought for your soul in the deeps of your eyes? I would love you, I promised, forever and aye, And I meant it too; yet, oh, isn't it odd? When we met in the Underground to-day I addressed you as Mary instead of as Maude. Oh, don't you remember that moonlit sea, With us on a silver trail afloat, When I gracefully sank on my bended knee At the risk of upsetting our little boat? Oh, I vowed that my life was blighted then, As friendship you proffered with mournful mien; But now as I think of your children ten, I'm glad you refused me, Evangeline. Oh, is that moment eternal still When I breathed my love in your shell-like ear, And you plucked at your fan as a maiden will, And you blushed so charmingly, Guenivere? Like a worshiper at your feet I sat; For a year and a day you made me mad; But now, alas! you are forty, fat, And I think: What a lucky escape I had! Oh, maidens I've set in a sacred shrine, Oh, Rosamond, Molly and Mignonette, I've deemed you in turn the most divine, In turn you've broken my heart . . . and yet It's easily mended. What's past is past. To-day on Lucy I'm going to call; For I'm sure that I know true love at last, And She is the fairest girl of all. <h2> The Petit Vieux </h2> "Sow your wild oats in your youth," so we're always told; But I say with deeper sooth: "Sow them when you're old." I'll be wise till I'm about seventy or so: Then, by Gad! I'll blossom out as an ancient beau. I'll assume a dashing air, laugh with loud Ha! ha! . . . How my grandchildren will stare at their grandpapa! Their perfection aureoled I will scandalize: Won't I be a hoary old sinner in their eyes! Watch me, how I'll learn to chaff barmaids in a bar; Scotches daily, gayly quaff, puff a fierce cigar. I will haunt the Tango teas, at the stage-door stand; Wait for Dolly Dimpleknees, bouquet in my hand. Then at seventy I'll take flutters at roulette; While at eighty hope I'll make good at poker yet; And in fashionable togs to the races go, Gayest of the gay old dogs, ninety years or so. "Sow your wild oats while you're young," that's what you are told; Don't believe the foolish tongue—sow 'em when you're old. Till you're threescore years and ten, take my humble tip, Sow your nice tame oats and then . . . Hi, boys! Let 'er rip. <h2> My Masterpiece </h2> It's slim and trim and bound in blue; Its leaves are crisp and edged with gold; Its words are simple, stalwart too; Its thoughts are tender, wise and bold. Its pages scintillate with wit; Its pathos clutches at my throat: Oh, how I love each line of it! That Little Book I Never Wrote. In dreams I see it praised and prized By all, from plowman unto peer; It's pencil-marked and memorized, It's loaned (and not returned, I fear); It's worn and torn and travel-tossed, And even dusky natives quote That classic that the world has lost, The Little Book I Never Wrote. Poor ghost! For homes you've failed to cheer, For grieving hearts uncomforted, Don't haunt me now. . . . Alas! I fear The fire of Inspiration's dead. A humdrum way I go to-night, From all I hoped and dreamed remote: Too late . . . a better man must write That Little Book I Never Wrote. Talking about writing books, there is a queer character who shuffles up and down the little streets that neighbor the Place Maubert, and who, they say, has been engaged on one for years. Sometimes I see him cowering in some cheap bouge, and his wild eyes gleam at me through the tangle of his hair. But I do not think he ever sees me. He mumbles to himself, and moves like a man in a dream. His pockets are full of filthy paper on which he writes from time to time. The students laugh at him and make him tipsy; the street boys pelt him with ordure; the better cafes turn him from their doors. But who knows? At least, this is how I see him: <h2> My Book </h2> Before I drink myself to death, God, let me finish up my Book! At night, I fear, I fight for breath, And wake up whiter than a spook; And crawl off to a bistro near, And drink until my brain is clear. Rare Absinthe! Oh, it gives me strength To write and write; and so I spend Day after day, until at length With joy and pain I'll write The End: Then let this carcase rot; I give The world my Book—my Book will live. For every line is tense with truth, There's hope and joy on every page; A cheer, a clarion call to Youth, A hymn, a comforter to Age: All's there that I was meant to be, My part divine, the God in me. It's of my life the golden sum; Ah! who that reads this Book of mine, In stormy centuries to come, Will dream I rooted with the swine? Behold! I give mankind my best: What does it matter, all the rest? It's this that makes sublime my day; It's this that makes me struggle on. Oh, let them mock my mortal clay, My spirit's deathless as the dawn; Oh, let them shudder as they look . . . I'll be immortal in my Book. And so beside the sullen Seine I fight with dogs for filthy food, Yet know that from my sin and pain Will soar serene a Something Good; Exultantly from shame and wrong A Right, a Glory and a Song. How charming it is, this Paris of the summer skies! Each morning I leap up with joy in my heart, all eager to begin the day of work. As I eat my breakfast and smoke my pipe, I ponder over my task. Then in the golden sunshine that floods my little attic I pace up and down, absorbed and forgetful of the world. As I compose I speak the words aloud. There are difficulties to overcome; thoughts that will not fit their mold; rebellious rhymes. Ah! those moments of despair and defeat. Then suddenly the mind grows lucid, imagination glows, the snarl unravels. In the end is always triumph and success. O delectable m�tier! Who would not be a rhymesmith in Paris, in Bohemia, in the heart of youth! I have now finished my twentieth ballad. Five more and they will be done. In quiet corners of cafes, on benches of the Luxembourg, on the sunny Quays I read them over one by one. Here is my latest: <h2> My Hour </h2> Day after day behold me plying My pen within an office drear; The dullest dog, till homeward hieing, Then lo! I reign a king of cheer. A throne have I of padded leather, A little court of kiddies three, A wife who smiles whate'er the weather, A feast of muffins, jam and tea. The table cleared, a romping battle, A fairy tale, a "Children, bed," A kiss, a hug, a hush of prattle (God save each little drowsy head!) A cozy chat with wife a-sewing, A silver lining clouds that low'r, Then she too goes, and with her going, I come again into my Hour. I poke the fire, I snugly settle, My pipe I prime with proper care; The water's purring in the kettle, Rum, lemon, sugar, all are there. And now the honest grog is steaming, And now the trusty briar's aglow: Alas! in smoking, drinking, dreaming, How sadly swift the moments go! Oh, golden hour! 'twixt love and duty, All others I to others give; But you are mine to yield to Beauty, To glean Romance, to greatly live. For in my easy-chair reclining . . . I feel the sting of ocean spray; And yonder wondrously are shining The Magic Isles of Far Away. Beyond the comber's crashing thunder Strange beaches flash into my ken; On jetties heaped head-high with plunder I dance and dice with sailor-men. Strange stars swarm down to burn above me, Strange shadows haunt, strange voices greet; Strange women lure and laugh and love me, And fling their bastards at my feet. Oh, I would wish the wide world over, In ports of passion and unrest, To drink and drain, a tarry rover With dragons tattooed on my chest, With haunted eyes that hold red glories Of foaming seas and crashing shores, With lips that tell the strangest stories Of sunken ships and gold moidores; Till sick of storm and strife and slaughter, Some ghostly night when hides the moon, I slip into the milk-warm water And softly swim the stale lagoon. Then through some jungle python-haunted, Or plumed morass, or woodland wild, I win my way with heart undaunted, And all the wonder of a child. The pathless plains shall swoon around me, The forests frown, the floods appall; The mountains tiptoe to confound me, The rivers roar to speed my fall. Wild dooms shall daunt, and dawns be gory, And Death shall sit beside my knee; Till after terror, torment, glory, I win again the sea, the sea. . . . Oh, anguish sweet! Oh, triumph splendid! Oh, dreams adieu! my pipe is dead. My glass is dry, my Hour is ended, It's time indeed I stole to bed. How peacefully the house is sleeping! Ah! why should I strange fortunes plan? To guard the dear ones in my keeping— That's task enough for any man. So through dim seas I'll ne'er go spoiling; The red Tortugas never roam; Please God! I'll keep the pot a-boiling, And make at least a happy home. My children's path shall gleam with roses, Their grace abound, their joy increase. And so my Hour divinely closes With tender thoughts of praise and peace. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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