Ballads of a Bohemian/Book 2

by Robert William Service

BOOK TWO

EARLY SUMMER

I

Parc Montsouris

June 1914.

THE RELEASE

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.

THE WEE SHOP

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:

THE PHILISTINE AND THE BOHEMIAN

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 Gaîté was more his line.
She doted on Barclay and Dell and Caine;
He quoted Malarmé 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 Stravinski 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 F. B. 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 Tschaikowsky and Cæsar 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.

II

A Small Café in a Side Street, June 1914.

THE BOHEMIAN DREAMS

Because my overcoat’s in pawn,
I choose to take my glass
Within a little bistro on
The rue du Montparnasse;
The dusty bins with bottles shine,
The counter’s lined with zinc,
And there I sit and drink my wine,
And think and think and think.

I think of hoary old Stamboul,
Of Moslem and of Greek,
Of Persian in coat of wool,
Of Kurd and Arab sheikh;
Of all the types of weal and woe,
And as I raise my glass,
Across Galata bridge I know
They pass and pass and pass.

I think of citron-trees aglow,
Of fan-palms shading down,
Of sailors dancing heel and toe
With wenches black and brown;
And though it’s all an ocean far
From Yucatan to France,

I’ll bet beside the old bazaar
They dance and dance and dance.

I think of Monte Carlo, where
The pallid croupiers call,
And in the gorgeous, guilty air
The gamblers watch the ball;
And as I flick away the foam
With which my beer is crowned,
The wheels beneath the gilded dome
Go round and round and round.

I think of vast Niagara,
Those gulfs of foam a-shine,
Whose mighty roar would stagger a
More prosy bean than mine;
And as the hours I idly spend
Against a greasy wall,
I know that green the waters bend
And fall and fall and fall.

I think of Nijni Novgorod
And Jews who never rest;
And womenfolk with spade and hod
Who slave in Buda-Pest;
Of squat and sturdy Japanese
Who pound the paddy soil,
And as I loaf and smoke at ease
They toil and toil and toil.

I think of shrines in Hindustan,
Of cloistral glooms in Spain,

Of minarets in Ispahan,
Of St. Sophia’s fane,
Of convent towers in Palestine,
Of temples in Cathay,
And as I stretch and sip my wine
They pray and pray and pray.

And so my dreams I dwell within,
And visions come and go,
And life is passing like a Cin-
Ematographlc Show;
Till just as surely as my pipe
Is underneath my nose,
Amid my visions rich and ripe
I doze and doze and doze.

Alas! It is too true. Once more I am counting the coppers, living on the ragged edge. My manuscripts come back to me like boomerangs, and I have not the postage, far less the heart, to send them out again.

MacBean seems to take an interest in my struggles. I often sit in his room in the rue Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, smoking and sipping whisky into the small hours. He is an old hand, who knows the market and frankly manufactures for it.

“Give me short pieces,” he says; “things of three verses that will fill a blank half-page of a magazine. Let them be sprightly, and, if possible, have a snapper at the end. Give me that sort of article. I think I can place it for you.” Then he looked through a lot of my verse: “This is the kind of stuff I might be able to sell,” he said:

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY

Clorinda met me on the way
As I came from the train;
Her face was anything but gay,
In fact, suggested pain.
“Oh hubby, hubby dear!” she cried,
“I’ve awful news to tell.…”
“What is it, darling?” I replied;
“Your mother–is she well?”

“Oh no! oh no! It is not that,
It's something else,” she wailed,
My heart was beating pit-a-pat,
My ruddy visage paled.
Like lightning flash in heaven’s dome
The fear within me woke:
“Don't say,” I cried, “our little home
Has all gone up in smoke!”

She shook her head. Oh, swift I clasped
And held her to my breast;
“The children! Tell me quick,” I gasped,
“Believe me. It is best.”
Then, then she spoke; ’mid sobs I caught
These words of woe divine:
“It's coo-coo-cook has gone and bought
A new hat just like mine.”

At present I am living on bread and milk. By doing this I can rub along for another ten days. The thought pleases me. As long as I have a crust I am master of my destiny. Some day, when I am rich and famous, I shall look back on all this with regret. Yet I think I shall always remain a Bohemian. I hate regularity. The clock was never made for me. I want to eat when I am hungry, sleep when I am weary, drink–well, any old time.

I prefer to be alone. Company is a constraint on my spirit. I never make an engagement if I can avoid it. To do so is to put a mortgage on my future. I like to be able to rise in the morning with the thought that the hours before me are all mine, to spend in my own way–to work, to dream, to watch the unfolding drama of life.

Here is another of my ballads. It is longer than most, and gave me more trouble, though none the better for that.

THE PENCIL SELLER

A pencil, sir; a penny–won’t you buy?
I’m cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight;
Don’t turn your back, sir; take one just to try;
I haven’t made a single sale to-night.
Oh, thank you, sir; but take the pencil too;
I’m not a beggar, I’m a business man.
Pencils I deal in, red and black and blue;
It’s hard, but still I do the best I can.
Most days I make enough to pay for bread,
A cup o’ coffee, stretching room at night.
One needs so little–to be warm and fed,
A hole to kennel in–oh, one’s all right…

Excuse me, you’re a painter, are you not?
I saw you looking at that dealer’s show,
The croûtes he has for sale, a shabby lot–
What do I know of Art? What do I know…
Well, look! That David Strong so well displayed,
“White Sorcery” it’s called, all gossamer,
And pale moon-magic and a dancing maid
(You like the little elfin face of her?)–
That’s good; but still, the picture as a whole,
The values,–Pah! He never painted worse;
Perhaps because his fire was lacking coal,
His cupboard bare, no money in his purse.
Perhaps… they say he labored hard and long,
And see now, in the harvest of his fame,
When round his pictures people gape and throng,
A scurvy dealer sells this on his name.
A wretched rag, wrung out of want and woe;
A soulless daub, not David Strong a bit,
Unworthy of his art.… How should I know?
How should I know? I’m Strong–I painted it.

There now, I didn’t mean to let that out.
It came in spite of me–aye, stare and stare.
You think I’m lying, crazy, drunk, no doubt–
Think what you like, it’s neither here nor there.
It’s hard to tell so terrible a truth,
To gain to glory, yet be such as I.
It’s true; that picture’s mine, done in my youth,
Up in a garret near the Paris sky.
The child’s my daughter; aye, she posed for me.
That’s why I come and sit here every night.

The painting’s bad, but still–oh, still I see
Her little face all laughing in the light.
So now you understand.–I live in fear
Lest one like you should carry it away;
A poor, pot-boiling thing, but oh, how dear!
“Don’t let them buy it, pitying God!” I pray!
And hark ye, sir–sometimes my brain’s awhirl.
Some night I’ll crash Into that window pane
And snatch my picture back, my little girl,
And run and run.…
I’m talking wild again;
A crab can’t run. I’m crippled, withered, lame,
Palsied, as good as dead all down one side.
No warning had I when the evil came:
It struck me down in all my strength and pride.
Triumph was mine, I thrilled with perfect power;
Honor was mine, Fame’s laurel touched my brow;
Glory was mine–within a little hour
I was a god and… what you find me now.

My child, that little, laughing girl you see,
She was my nurse for all ten weary years;
Her joy, her hope, her youth she gave for me;
Her very smiles were masks to hide her tears.
And I, my precious art, so rich, so rare,
Lost, lost to me–what could my heart but break!
Oh, as I lay and wrestled with despair,
I would have killed myself but for her sake.…

By luck I had some pictures I could sell,
And so we fought the wolf back from the door;

She painted too, aye, wonderfully well.
We often dreamed of brighter days in store.
And then quite suddenly she seemed to fail;
I saw the shadows darken round her eyes.
So tired she was, so sorrowful, so pale,
And oh, there came a day she could not rise.
The doctor looked at her; he shook his head,
And spoke of wine and grapes and Southern air:
“If you can get her out of this,” he said,
“She’ll have a fighting chance with proper care.”

“With proper care!” When he had gone away,
I sat there, trembling, twitching, dazed with grief.
Under my old and ragged coat she lay,
Our room was bare and cold beyond belief.
“Maybe,” I thought, “I still can paint a bit,
Some lilies, landscape, anything at all.”
Alas! My brush, I could not steady it.
Down from my fumbling hand I let it fall.
“With proper care”–how could I give her that,
Half of me dead?… I crawled down to the street.
Cowering beside the wall, I held my hat
And begged of every one I chanced to meet.
I got some pennies, bought her milk and bread,
And so I fought to keep the Doom away;
And yet I saw with agony of dread
My dear one sinking, sinking day by day.
And then I was awakened in the night:
“Please take my hands, I’m cold,” I heard her sigh;
And soft she whispered, as she held me tight:

“Oh daddy, we’ve been happy, you and I!”
I do not think she suffered any pain,
She breathed so quietly… but though I tried,
I could not warm her little hands again:
And so there in the icy dark she died.…
The dawn came groping in with fingers gray
And touched me, sitting silent as a stone;
I kissed those piteous lips, as cold as clay–
I did not cry, I did not even moan.
At last I rose, groped down the narrow stair;
An evil fog was oozing from the sky;
Half-crazed I stumbled on, I knew not where,
Like phantoms were the folks that passed me by.
How long I wandered thus I do not know,
But suddenly I halted, stood stock-still–
Beside a door that spilled a golden glow
I saw a name, my name, upon a bill.
“A Sale of Famous Pictures,” so it read,
“A Notable Collection, each a gem.
Distinguished Works of Art by painters dead.”
The folks were going in, I followed them.
I stood upon the outskirts of the crowd,
I only hoped that none might notice me.
Soon, soon I heard them call my name aloud:
“A ‘David Strong,’ his Fête in Brittany.”
(A brave big picture that, the best I’ve done,
It glowed and kindled half the hall away,
With all its memories of sea and sun,
Of pipe and bowl, of joyous work and play.
I saw the sardine nets blue as the sky,
I saw the nut-brown fisher-boats put out.)

“Five hundred pounds!” rapped out a voice near by;
“Six hundred!” “Seven!” “Eight!” And then a shout:
“A thousand pounds!” Oh, how I thrilled to hear!
Oh, how the bids went up by leaps, by bounds!
And then a silence; then the auctioneer:
“It's going! Going! Gone! Three thousand pounds!”
Three thousand pounds! A frenzy leapt in me.
“That picture’s mine,” I cried; “I’m David Strong.
I painted it, this famished wretch you see;
I did it, I, and sold it for a song.
And in a garret three small hours ago
My daughter died for want of Christian care.
Look, look at me!… Is it to mock my woe
You pay three thousand for my picture there?”…

God! I stumbled blindly from the hall;
The city crashed on me, the fiendish sounds
Of cruelty and strife, but over all
“Three thousand pounds!” I heard; “Three thousand pounds!”

There, that’s my story, sir; it isn't gay.
Tales of the Poor are never very bright…
You’ll look for me next time you pass this way…
I hope you’ll find me, sir; good-night, good-night.

III

The Luxembourg, June 1914.

On a late afternoon, when the sunlight is mellow on the leaves, I often sit near the Fontaine de Medicis, and watch the children at their play. Sometimes I make bits of verse about them, such as:

FI-FI IN BED

Up into the sky I stare;
All the little stars I see;
And I know that God is there
O, how lonely He must be!

Me, I laugh and leap all day,
Till my head begins to nod;
He’s so great, He cannot play:
I am glad I am not God.

Poor kind God upon His throne,
Up there in the sky so blue,
Always, always all alone…
“Please, dear God, I pity You.”

Or else, sitting on the terrace of a cafe on the Boul’ Mich’, I sip slowly a Dubonnet or a Bhyrr, and the charm of the Quarter possesses me. I think of men who have lived and loved there, who have groveled and gloried, who have drunk deep and died. And then I scribble things like this:

GODS IN THE GUTTER

I dreamed I saw three demi-gods who in a café sat,
And one was small and crapulous, and one was large and fat;
And one was eaten up with vice and verminous at that.

The first he spoke of secret sins, and gems and perfumes rare;
And velvet cats and courtesans voluptuously fair:
“Who is the Sybarite?” I asked. They answered: “Baudelaire.”

The second talked in tapestries, by fantasy beguiled;
As frail as bubbles, hard as gems, his pageantries he piled;
“This Lord of Language, who is he?” They whispered “Oscar Wilde.”

The third was staring at his glass from out abysmal pain;
With tears his eyes were bitten in beneath his bulbous brain.
“Who is the sodden wretch?” I said. They told me: “Paul Verlaine.”

Oh, Wilde, Verlaine and Baudelaire, their lips were wet with wine;
Oh poseur, pimp and libertine! Oh cynic, sot and swine!

Oh votaries of velvet vice!… Oh gods of light divine!

Oh Baudelaire, Verlaine and Wilde, they knew the sinks of shame;
Their sun-aspiring wings they scorched at passion’s altar flame;
Yet lo! enthroned, enskied they stand, Immortal Sons of Fame.

I dreamed I saw three demi-gods who walked with feet of clay,
With cruel crosses on their backs, along a miry way;
Who climbed and climbed the bitter steep to which men turn and pray.

And while I am on the subject of the Quarter, let me repeat this, which is included in my Ballads of the Boulevards:

THE DEATH OF MARIE TORO

We’re taking Marie Toro to her home in Père-La-Chaise;
We’re taking Marie Toro to her last resting-place.
Behold! her hearse is hung with wreaths till everything is hid
Except the blossoms heaping high upon her coffin lid.
A week ago she roamed the street, a draggle and a slut,
A by-word of the Boulevard and everybody's butt;

A week ago she haunted us, we heard her whining cry,
We brushed aside the broken blooms she pestered us to buy;
A week ago she had not where to rest her weary head…
But now, oh, follow, follow on, for Marie Toro’s dead.

Oh Marie, she was once a queen–ah yes, a queen of queens.
High-throned above the Carnival she held her splendid sway.
For four-and-twenty crashing hours she knew what glory means,
The cheers of half a million throats, the délire of a day.
Yet she was only one of us, a little sewing-girl,
Though far the loveliest and best of all our laughing band;
Then Fortune beckoned; off she danced, amid the dizzy whirl,
And we who once might kiss her cheek were proud to kiss her hand.
For swiftly as a star she soared; she had her every wish;
We saw her roped with pearls of price, with princes at her call;
And yet, and yet I think her dreams were of the old Boul’ Mich’,

And yet I’m sure within her heart she loved us best of all.
For one night in the Purple Pig, upon the rue Saint-Jacques,
We laughed and quaffed… a limousine came swishing to the door;
Then Raymond Jolicœur cried out: “It’s Queen Marie come back,
In satin clad to make us glad, and witch our hearts once more.”
But no, her face was strangely sad, and at the evening’s end:
“Dear lads,” she said; “I love you all, and when I’m far away,
Remember, oh, remember, little Marie is your friend,
And though the world may lie between, I’m coming back some day.”
And so she went, and many a boy who’s fought his way to Fame,
Can look back on the struggle of his garret days and bless
The loyal heart, the tender hand, the Providence that came
To him and all in hour of need, in sickness and distress.
Time passed away. She won their hearts in London, Moscow, Rome;
They worshiped her in Argentine, adored her in Brazil;

We smoked our pipes and wondered when she might be coming home,
And then we learned the luck had turned, the things were going ill.
Her health had failed, her beauty paled, her lovers fled away;
And some one saw her in Peru, a common drab at last.
So years went by, and faces changed; our beards were sadly gray,
And Marie Toro’s name became an echo of the past.

You know that old and withered man, that derelict of art,
Who for a paltry franc will make a crayon sketch of you?
In slouching hat and shabby cloak he looks and is the part,
A sodden old Bohemian, without a single sou.
A boon companion of the days of Rimbaud and Verlaine,
He broods and broods, and chews the cud of bitter souvenirs;
Beneath his mop of grizzled hair his cheeks are gouged with pain,
The saffron sockets of his eyes are hollowed out with tears.
Well, one night in the D’Harcourt’s din I saw him in his place,
When suddenly the door was swung, a woman halted there;

A woman cowering like a dog, with white and haggard face,
A broken creature, bent of spine, a daughter of Despair.
She looked and looked, as to her breast she held some withered bloom;
“Too late! Too late!… they all are dead and gone,” I heard her say.
And once again her weary eyes went round and round the room;
“Not one of all I used to know…” she turned to go away…
But quick I saw the old man start: “Ah no!” he cried, “not all.
Oh Marie Toro, queen of queens, don’t you remember Paul?”

“Oh Marie, Marie Toro, in my garret next the sky,
Where many a day and night I’ve crouched with not a crust to eat,
A picture hangs upon the wall a fortune couldn’t buy,
A portrait of a girl whose face is pure and angel-sweet.”
Sadly the woman looked at him: “Alas! it’s true,” she said;
“That little maid, I knew her once. It’s long ago–she's dead.”
He went to her; he laid his hand upon her wasted arm:
“Oh, Marie Toro, come with me, though poor and sick am I.

For old times sake I cannot bear to see you come to harm;
Ah! there are memories, God knows, that never, never die.…”
“Too late!” she sighed; “I’ve lived my life of splendor and of shame;
I’ve been adored by men of power, I’ve touched the highest height;
I’ve squandered gold like heaps of dirt–oh, I have played the game;
I’ve had my place within the sun… and now I face the night.
Look! look! you see I’m lost to hope; I live no matter how…
To drink and drink and so forget… that’s all I care for now.”

And so she went her heedless way, and all our help was vain.
She trailed along with tattered shawl and mud-corroded skirt;
She gnawed a crust and slept beneath the bridges of the Seine,
A garbage thing, a composite of alcohol and dirt.
The students learned her story and the cafés knew her well,
The Pascal and the Panthéon, the Sufflot and Vachette;
She shuffled round the tables with the flowers she tried to sell,
A living mask of misery that no one will forget.

And then last week I missed her, and they found her in the street
One morning early, huddled down, for it was freezing cold;
But when they raised her ragged shawl her face was still and sweet;
Some bits of broken bloom were clutched within her icy hold.
That’s all.… Ah yes, they say that saw: her blue, wide-open eyes
Were beautiful with joy again, with radiant surprise.…

A week ago she begged for bread; we’ve bought for her a stone,
And a peaceful place in Père-La-Chaise where she’ll be well alone.
She cost a king his crown, they say; oh, wouldn’t she be proud
If she could see the wreaths to-day, the coaches and the crowd!
So follow, follow, follow on with slow and sober tread,
For Marie Toro, gutter waif and queen of queens, is dead.

IV

The Café de Deux Magots,

June 1914.

THE BOHEMIAN

Up in my garret bleak and bare
I tilted back on my broken chair,
And my three old pals were with me there,
Hunger and Thirst and Cold;
Hunger scowled at his scurvy mate:
Cold cowered down by the hollow grate,
And I hated them with a deadly hate
As old as life is old.

So up in my garret that’s near the sky
I smiled a smile that was thin and dry:
“You’ve roomed with me twenty year,” said I,
“Hunger and Thirst and Cold;
But now, begone down the broken stair!
I’ve suffered enough of your spite… so there!”
Bang! Bang! I slapped on the table bare
A glittering heap of gold.

“Red flames will jewel my wine to-night;
I'll loose my belt that you’ve lugged so tight;
Ha! Ha! Dame Fortune is smiling bright;
The stuff of my brain I’ve sold;
Canaille of the gutter, up! Away!
You’ve battened on me for a bitter-long day;

But I’m driving you forth, and forever and aye,
Hunger and Thirst and Cold.”

So I kicked them out with a scornful roar;
Yet, oh, they turned at the garret door;
Quietly there they spoke once more:
“The tale is not all told.
It’s au revoir, but it’s not good-by;
We’re yours, old chap, till the day you die;
Laugh on, you fool! Oh, you’ll never defy
Hunger and Thirst and Cold.”

Hurrah! The crisis in my financial career is over. Once more I have weathered the storm, and never did money jingle so sweetly in my pocket. It was MacBean who delivered me. He arrived at the door of my garret this morning, with a broad grin of pleasure on his face.

“Here,” said he; “I’ve sold some of your rubbish. They’ll take more too, of the same sort.”

With that he handed me three crisp notes. For a moment I thought that he was paying the money out of his own pocket, as he knew I was desperately hard up; but he showed me the letter enclosing the cheque he had cashed for me.

So we sought the Grand Boulevard, and I had a Pernod, which rose to my head in delicious waves of joy. I talked ecstatic nonsense, and seemed to walk like a god in clouds of gold. We dined on frogs’ legs and Vouvray, and then went to see the Revue at the Marigny. A very merry evening.

Such is the life of Bohemia, up and down, fast and feast; its very uncertainty its charm.

Here is my latest ballad, another attempt to express the sentiment of actuality:

THE AUCTION SALE

Her little head just topped the window-sill;
She even mounted on a stool, maybe;
She pressed against the pane, as children will,
And watched us playing, oh so wistfully!
And then I missed her for a month or more,
And idly thought: “She’s gone away, no doubt,”
Until a hearse drew up beside the door…
I saw a tiny coffin carried out.

And after that, towards dusk I’d often see
Behind the blind another face that looked:
Eyes of a young wife watching anxiously,
Then rushing back to where her dinner cooked.
She often gulped it down alone, I fear,
Within her heart the sadness of despair.
For near to midnight I would vaguely hear
A lurching step, a stumbling on the stair.

These little dramas of the common day!
A man weak-willed and fore-ordained to fail…
The window’s empty now, they’ve gone away,
And yonder, see, their furniture’s for sale.
To all the world their door is open wide,
And round and round the bargain-hunters roam,
And peer and gloat, like vultures avid-eyed,
Above the corpse of what was once a home.

So reverent I go from room to room,
And see the patient care, the tender touch,

The love that sought to brighten up the gloom,
The woman-courage tested overmuch.
Amid those things so intimate and dear,
Where now the mob invades with brutal tread,
I think: “What happiness is buried here,
What dreams are withered and what hopes are dead!”

Oh, woman dear, and were you sweet and glad
Over the lining of your little nest!
What ponderings and proud ideas you had!
What visions of a shrine of peace and rest!
For there’s his easy-chair upon the rug,
His reading-lamp, his pipe-rack on the wall,
All that you could devise to make him snug–
And yet you could not hold him with it all.

Ah, patient heart, what homelike joys you planned
To stay him by the dull domestic flame!
Those silken cushions that you worked by hand
When you had time, before the baby came.
Oh, how you wove around him cozy spells,
And schemed so hard to keep him home of nights!
Aye, every touch and turn some story tells
Of sweet conspiracies and dead delights.

And here upon the scratched piano stool,
Tied in a bundle, are the songs you sung;
That cozy that you worked in colored wool,
The Spanish lace you made when you were young,
And lots of modern novels, cheap reprints,

And little dainty knick-knacks everywhere;
And silken bows and curtains of gay chintz…
And oh, her tiny crib, her folding chair!

Sweet woman dear, and did your heart not break,
To leave this precious home you made in vain?
Poor shabby things! so prized for old times’ sake,
With all their memories of love and pain.
Alas! while shouts the raucous auctioneer,
And rat-faced dames are prying everywhere,
The echo of old joy is all I hear,
All, all I see just heartbreak and despair.

Imagination is the great gift of the gods. Given it, one does not need to look afar for subjects. There is romance in every face.

Those who have Imagination live in a land of enchantment which the eyes of others cannot see. Yet if it brings marvelous joy it also brings exquisite pain. Who lives a hundred lives must die a hundred deaths.

I do not know any of the people who live around me. Sometimes I pass them on the stairs. However, I am going to give my Imagination rein, and string some rhymes about them.

Before doing so, having money in my pocket and seeing the prospect of making more, let me blithely chant about

THE JOY OF BEING POOR

I

Let others sing of gold and gear, the joy of being rich;
But oh, the days when I was poor, a vagrant in a ditch!
When every dawn was like a gem, so radiant and rare,
And I had but a single coat, and not a single care;
When I would feast right royally on bacon, bread and beer,
And dig into a stack of hay and doze like any peer;
When I would wash beside a brook my solitary shirt,
And though it dried upon my back I never took a hurt;
When I went romping down the road contemptuous of care,
And slapped Adventure on the back–by Gad! we were a pair;
When, though my pockets lacked a coin, and though my coat was old,
The largess of the stars was mine, and all the sunset gold;
When time was only made for fools, and free as air was I,
And hard I hit and hard I lived beneath the open sky;

When all the roads were one to me, and each had its allure…
Ye Gods! these were the happy days, the days when I was poor.

II

Or else, again, old pal of mine, do you recall the times
You struggled with your storyettes, I wrestled with my rhymes;
Oh, we were happy, were we not?–we used to live so “high”
(A little bit of broken roof between us and the sky);
Upon the forge of art we toiled with hammer and with tongs;
You told me all your ripping yams, I sang to you my songs.
Our hats were frayed, our jackets patched, our boots were down at heel,
But oh, the happy men were we, although we lacked a meal.
And if I sold a bit of rhyme, or if you placed a tale,
What feasts we had of tenderloins and apple-tarts and ale!
And yet how often we would dine as cheerful as you please,
Beside our little friendly fire on coffee, bread and cheese.

We lived upon the ragged edge, and grub was never sure,
But oh, these were the happy days, the days when we were poor.

III

Alas! old man, we’re wealthy now, it’s sad beyond a doubt;
We cannot dodge prosperity, success has found us out.
Your eye is very dull and drear, my brow is creased with care,
We realize how hard it is to be a millionaire.
The burden’s heavy on our backs–you’re thinking of your rents,
I’m worrying if I’ll invest in five or six per cents.
We’ve limousines, and marble halls, and flunkeys by the score,
We play the part… but say, old chap, oh, isn’t it a bore?
We work like slaves, we eat too much, we put on evening dress;
We’ve everything a man can want, I think… but happiness.

Come, let us sneak away, old chum; forget that we are rich,
And earn an honest appetite, and scratch an honest itch.

Let’s be two jolly garreteers, up seven flights of stairs,
And wear old clothes and just pretend we aren’t millionaires;
And wonder how we’ll pay the rent, and scribble ream on ream,
And sup on sausages and tea, and laugh and loaf and dream.

And when we’re tired of that, my friend, oh, you will come with me;
And we will seek the sunlit roads that lie beside the sea.
We’ll know the joy the gipsy knows, the freedom nothing mars,
The golden treasure-gates of dawn, the mintage of the stars.
We’ll smoke our pipes and watch the pot, and feed the crackling fire,
And sing like two old jolly boys, and dance to heart’s desire;
We’ll climb the hill and ford the brook and camp upon the moor…
Old chap, let’s haste, I’m mad to taste the Joy of Being Poor.

V

My Garret, Montparnasse,

June 1914.

MY NEIGHBORS

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.

Room 4

THE PAINTER CHAP

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.

Room 6

THE LITTLE WORKGIRL

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 toll and I toll 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 cafés 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.

Room 7

THE COCO-FIEND

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!…