Ballads of a Bohemian Part 11

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 G.o.d 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 hea.r.s.e 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 G.o.ds. 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.ds! 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 rippling yarns, 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 appet.i.te, 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.