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Ballads of a Bohemian

<h2> V </h2> August 10, 1914. I am living in a little house so near the sea that at high tide I can see on my bedroom wall the reflected ripple of the water. At night I waken to the melodious welter of waves; or maybe there is a great stillness, and then I know that the sand and sea-grass are lying naked to the moon. But soon the tide returns, and once more I hear the roistering of the waves. Calvert, my friend, is a lover as well as a painter of nature. He rises with the dawn to see the morning mist kindle to coral and the sun's edge clear the hill-crest. As he munches his coarse bread and sips his white wine, what dreams are his beneath the magic changes of the sky! He will paint the same scene under a dozen conditions of light. He has looked so long for Beauty that he has come to see it everywhere. I love this friendly home of his. A peace steals over my spirit, and I feel as if I could stay here always. Some day I hope that I too may have such an one, and that I may write like this: <h2> I Have Some Friends </h2> I have some friends, some worthy friends, And worthy friends are rare: These carpet slippers on my feet, That padded leather chair; This old and shabby dressing-gown, So well the worse of wear. I have some friends, some honest friends, And honest friends are few; My pipe of briar, my open fire, A book that's not too new; My bed so warm, the nights of storm I love to listen to. I have some friends, some good, good friends, Who faithful are to me: My wrestling partner when I rise, The big and burly sea; My little boat that's riding there So saucy and so free. I have some friends, some golden friends, Whose worth will not decline: A tawny Irish terrier, a purple shading pine, A little red-roofed cottage that So proudly I call mine. All other friends may come and go, All other friendships fail; But these, the friends I've worked to win, Oh, they will never stale; And comfort me till Time shall write The finish to my tale. Calvert tries to paint more than the thing he sees; he tries to paint behind it, to express its spirit. He believes that Beauty is God made manifest, and that when we discover Him in Nature we discover Him in ourselves. But Calvert did not always see thus. At one time he was a Pagan, content to paint the outward aspect of things. It was after his little child died he gained in vision. Maybe the thought that the dead are lost to us was too unbearable. He had to believe in a coming together again. <h2> The Quest </h2> I sought Him on the purple seas, I sought Him on the peaks aflame; Amid the gloom of giant trees And canyons lone I called His name; The wasted ways of earth I trod: In vain! In vain! I found not God. I sought Him in the hives of men, The cities grand, the hamlets gray, The temples old beyond my ken, The tabernacles of to-day; All life that is, from cloud to clod I sought. . . . Alas! I found not God. Then after roamings far and wide, In streets and seas and deserts wild, I came to stand at last beside The death-bed of my little child. Lo! as I bent beneath the rod I raised my eyes . . . and there was God. A golden mile of sand swings hammock-like between two tusks of rock. The sea is sleeping sapphire that wakes to cream and crash upon the beach. There is a majesty in the detachment of its lazy waves, and it is good in the night to hear its friendly roar. Good, too, to leap forth with the first sunshine and fall into its arms, to let it pummel the body to living ecstasy and send one to breakfast glad-eyed and glowing. Behind the house the greensward slopes to a wheat-field that is like a wall of gold. Here I lie and laze away the time, or dip into a favorite book, Stevenson's Letters or Belloc's Path to Rome. Bees drone in the wild thyme; a cuckoo keeps calling, a lark spills jeweled melody. Then there is a seeming silence, but it is the silence of a deeper sound. After all, Silence is only man's confession of his deafness. Like Death, like Eternity, it is a word that means nothing. So lying there I hear the breathing of the trees, the crepitation of the growing grass, the seething of the sap and the movements of innumerable insects. Strange how I think with distaste of the spurious glitter of Paris, of my garret, even of my poor little book. I watch the wife of my friend gathering poppies in the wheat. There is a sadness in her face, for it is only a year ago they lost their little one. Often I see her steal away to the village graveyard, sitting silent for long and long. <h2> The Comforter </h2> As I sat by my baby's bed That's open to the sky, There fluttered round and round my head A radiant butterfly. And as I wept—of hearts that ache The saddest in the land— It left a lily for my sake, And lighted on my hand. I watched it, oh, so quietly, And though it rose and flew, As if it fain would comfort me It came and came anew. Now, where my darling lies at rest, I do not dare to sigh, For look! there gleams upon my breast A snow-white butterfly. My friends will have other children, and if some day they should read this piece of verse, perhaps they will think of the city lad who used to sit under the old fig-tree in the garden and watch the lizards sun themselves on the time-worn wall. <h2> The Other One </h2> "Gather around me, children dear; The wind is high and the night is cold; Closer, little ones, snuggle near; Let's seek a story of ages old; A magic tale of a bygone day, Of lovely ladies and dragons dread; Come, for you're all so tired of play, We'll read till it's time to go to bed." So they all are glad, and they nestle in, And squat on the rough old nursery rug, And they nudge and hush as I begin, And the fire leaps up and all's so snug; And there I sit in the big arm-chair, And how they are eager and sweet and wise, And they cup their chins in their hands and stare At the heart of the flame with thoughtful eyes. And then, as I read by the ruddy glow And the little ones sit entranced and still . . . He's drawing near, ah! I know, I know He's listening too, as he always will. He's there—he's standing beside my knee; I see him so well, my wee, wee son. . . . Oh, children dear, don't look at me— I'm reading now for—the Other One. For the firelight glints in his golden hair, And his wondering eyes are fixed on my face, And he rests on the arm of my easy-chair, And the book's a blur and I lose my place: And I touch my lips to his shining head, And my voice breaks down and—the story's done. . . . Oh, children, kiss me and go to bed: Leave me to think of the Other One. Of the One who will never grow up at all, Who will always be just a child at play, Tender and trusting and sweet and small, Who will never leave me and go away; Who will never hurt me and give me pain; Who will comfort me when I'm all alone; A heart of love that's without a stain, Always and always my own, my own. Yet a thought shines out from the dark of pain, And it gives me hope to be reconciled: That each of us must be born again, And live and die as a little child; So that with souls all shining white, White as snow and without one sin, We may come to the Gates of Eternal Light, Where only children may enter in. So, gentle mothers, don't ever grieve Because you have lost, but kiss the rod; From the depths of your woe be glad, believe You've given an angel unto God. Rejoice! You've a child whose youth endures, Who comes to you when the day is done, Wistful for love, oh, yours, just yours, Dearest of all, the Other One. <h2> Catastrophe </h2> Brittany, August 14, 1914. And now I fear I must write in another strain. Up to this time I have been too happy. I have existed in a magic Bohemia, largely of my own making. Hope, faith, enthusiasm have been mine. Each day has had its struggle, its failure, its triumph. However, that is all ended. During the past week we have lived breathlessly. For in spite of the exultant sunshine our spirits have been under a cloud, a deepening shadow of horror and calamity. . . . WAR. Even as I write, in our little village steeple the bells are ringing madly, and in every little village steeple all over the land. As he hears it the harvester checks his scythe on the swing; the clerk throws down his pen; the shopkeeper puts up his shutters. Only in the cafes there is a clamor of voices and a drowning of care. For here every man must fight, every home give tribute. There is no question, no appeal. By heredity and discipline all minds are shaped to this great hour. So to-morrow each man will seek his barracks and become a soldier as completely as if he had never been anything else. With the same docility as he dons his baggy red trousers will he let some muddle-headed General hurl him to destruction for some dubious gain. To-day a father, a home-maker; to-morrow fodder for cannon. So they all go without hesitation, without bitterness; and the great military machine that knows not humanity swings them to their fate. I marvel at the sense of duty, the resignation, the sacrifice. It is magnificent, it is FRANCE. And the Women. Those who wait and weep. Ah! to-day I have not seen one who did not weep. Yes, one. She was very old, and she stood by her garden gate with her hand on the uplifted latch. As I passed she looked at me with eyes that did not see. She had no doubt sons and grandsons who must fight, and she had good reason, perhaps, to remember the war of soixante-dix. When I passed an hour later she was still there, her hand on the uplifted latch. August 30th. The men have gone. Only remain graybeards, women and children. Calvert and I have been helping our neighbors to get in the harvest. No doubt we aid; but there with the old men and children a sense of uneasiness and even shame comes over me. I would like to return to Paris, but the railway is mobilized. Each day I grow more discontented. Up there in the red North great things are doing and I am out of it. I am thoroughly unhappy. Then Calvert comes to me with a plan. He has a Ford car. We will all three go to Paris. He intends to offer himself and his car to the Red Cross. His wife will nurse. So we are very happy at the solution, and to-morrow we are off. Paris. Back again. Closed shutters, deserted streets. How glum everything is! Those who are not mobilized seem uncertain how to turn. Every one buys the papers and reads grimly of disaster. No news is bad news. I go to my garret as to a beloved friend. Everything is just as I left it, so that it seems I have never been away. I sigh with relief and joy. I will take up my work again. Serene above the storm I will watch and wait. Although I have been brought up in England I am American born. My country is not concerned. So, going to the D�me Cafe, I seek some of my comrades. Strange! They have gone. MacBean, I am told, is in England. By dyeing his hair and lying about his age he has managed to enlist in the Seaforth Highlanders. Saxon Dane too. He has joined the Foreign Legion, and even now may be fighting. Well, let them go. I will keep out of the mess. But why did they go? I wish I knew. War is murder. Criminal folly. Against Humanity. Imperialism is at the root of it. We are fools and dupes. Yes, I will think and write of other things. . . . MacBean has enlisted. I hate violence. I would not willingly cause pain to anything breathing. I would rather be killed than kill. I will stand above the Battle and watch it from afar. Dane is in the Foreign Legion. How disturbing it all is! One cannot settle down to anything. Every day I meet men who tell the most wonderful stories in the most casual way. I envy them. I too want to have experiences, to live where life's beat is most intense. But that's a poor reason for going to war. And yet, though I shrink from the idea of fighting, I might in some way help those who are. MacBean and Dane, for example. Sitting lonely in the D�me, I seem to see their ghosts in the corner. MacBean listening with his keen, sarcastic smile, Saxon Dane banging his great hairy fist on the table till the glasses jump. Where are they now? Living a life that I will never know. When they come back, if they ever do, shall I not feel shamed in their presence? Oh, this filthy war! Things were going on so beautifully. We were all so happy, so full of ambition, of hope; laughing and talking over pipe and bowl, and in our garrets seeking to realize our dreams. Ah, these days will never come again! Then, as I sit there, Calvert seeks me out. He has joined an ambulance corps that is going to the Front. Will I come in? "Yes," I say; "I'll do anything." So it is all settled. To-morrow I give up my freedom. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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