How young he looks, how pale,
How piteously frail.
Strange, strange to look at him
So careless of the crowd, so tense, so slim,
And know that but for me
He would not be.
Thalberti, now,
What a bear for strength;
Breadth, length.
Somehow
I have a feeling Bébé is amused
Whenever he's abused
By Monsieur le Conducteur for his sins,
No doubt he grins
At all that poor man's threats
Then straightway sees a vision and forgets
Them all.
Bah! I never could abide this hall.
When first I played Camille
Upon that stage, it made me feel
As though my body, long returned to dust,
Had risen up and tried to thrust
Itself upon the notice of a host
Of mortals, who regarded my slim ghost
With hostile eyes. Pauvre petit.
He is playing that flight of notes exquisitely.
I shall insist upon some milk and bread
Before he goes to bed
Else someday—oh, hélas, my heart
Is being pulled quite shockingly apart!
The year I played da Rimini
They fed me eggs and cream,
Poor little me!
I used to scream
With temper when they made me choke them down.
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