Ballads of a Bohemian Part 8

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 Tchaikovsky and Caesar 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 a.s.s.

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 pa.s.s for a Philistine.

II

A Small Cafe in a Side Street,

June 1914.

The Bohemian Dreams

Because my overcoat's in p.a.w.n, I choose to take my gla.s.s Within a little _bistro_ on The rue du Montparna.s.se; 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 h.o.a.ry 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 gla.s.s, Across Galata bridge I know They pa.s.s and pa.s.s and pa.s.s.

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 st.u.r.dy j.a.panese 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 pa.s.sing like a Cin- Ematographic 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 ma.n.u.scripts 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 _croutes_ 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.