Ballads of a Bohemian Part 13

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 cafes 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 h.o.a.ry 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 pa.s.s 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, G.o.d, 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.