Sweden's Laureate: Selected Poems of Verner von Heidenstam/The Happy Artists
THE HAPPY ARTISTS.
Yes, human beings,—these same bulks we seeIn square and street since, doubtless to oppress them,The clothes-idea struck man's family,—Have form and color, if they but undress them.
I stretched my canvas, took up with precisionMy charcoal. Then the model in that coldAnd blue-gray light let fall her garment's fold,And a nude beauty stood before our vision.We merry lads were seated all around,While through the frosted windows came up-soaringThe muffled, multitudinous thunder-soundOf smoky Paris, like Niagara's roaring.
I was the youngest student, to my woe.How gladly I recall now the occasionIn the first week when I as "le nouveau"Danced for my fellow-students' delectation,Wearing a mighty Phrygian chapeau!Each man politely bade me buy him soap;If I forgot, though, I should get a thwacking.With punch I sued for grace, but had to mopeIn thirst while all the rest their lips were smacking.
I had to serve our Baal, the fire-place,Which glowed like any wine-warm prelate's face.My blue-and-yellow matchbox with a snickerThey scrutinized, and straightway bade me spell For hours together "sä-ker-hets-tänd-stickor"And say: "The Swedish language sounds like hell."I soon made friends and, better yet, what ho!One day my youthful happiness was doubledWhen o'er the threshold slouched a fresh "nouveau,"And I had rest while he in turn was troubled.
We were like mad-cap boys and acted so.What painter lacks the impulse or the leisureTo climb forthwith the giddiest peak of pleasure,When his tobacco and his punch-bowl glow,Like sunny morning with new-fallen snow,Such was the spirit of our band's employment.What clamor at the Café Star there wasAmong these men, who sent their brains to grassAnd took the whole world for their eyes' enjoyment!Across their pencil-butts benignly gazing,They saw the gorgeous town and the attireOf long-gloved ladies, costumes quite amazing:Their eyes' delight was all they could desire.
And yet their handwork never wholly filled me,Though I with charcoal sought to play my part.I had at home a shelf of books that thrilled me.I scanned the world through printed symbol swart,And through the beggar's rags I strove to seeThe inner man. I looked unceasinglyWith my cold mind and with my burning heart.Time's war-cry in the din I could betoken.In wrath I gripped my charcoal with the will To make it glow; I tried my utmost skill,A foot I drew, a heel—with that 'twas broken.
Paris I wept not for, but jealous, lonely,I bade farewell to that gay artist set,Who with small genius of the soul had yetA genius gathered in the eye-sight only.