Ballads of a Bohemian Part 2

Yon's a playwright--mark his face, Puffed and purple, tense and tired; Pasha-like he holds his place, Hated, envied and admired.

How you gobble life, my friend; Wine, and woman soft and pink!

Well, each tether has its end: Sir, it's later than you think.

See yon living scarecrow pa.s.s With a wild and wolfish stare At each empty absinthe gla.s.s, As if he saw Heaven there.

Poor d.a.m.ned wretch, to end your pain There is still the Greater Drink.

Yonder waits the sanguine Seine . . .

It is later than you think.

Lastly, you who read; aye, you Who this very line may scan: Think of all you planned to do . . .

Have you done the best you can?

See! the tavern lights are low; Black's the night, and how you shrink!

G.o.d! and is it time to go?

Ah! the clock is always slow; It is later than you think; Sadly later than you think; Far, far later than you think.

Scarcely do I scribble that last line on the back of an old envelope when a voice hails me. It is a fellow free-lance, a short-story man called MacBean. He is having a feast of _Marennes_ and he asks me to join him.

MacBean is a Scotsman with the soul of an Irishman. He has a keen, lean, spectacled face, and if it were not for his gray hair he might be taken for a student of theology. However, there is nothing of the Puritan in MacBean. He loves wine and women, and money melts in his fingers.

He has lived so long in the Quarter he looks at life from the Parisian angle. His knowledge of literature is such that he might be a Professor, but he would rather be a vagabond of letters. We talk shop. We discuss the American short story, but MacBean vows they do these things better in France. He says that some of the _contes_ printed every day in the _Journal_ are worthy of Maupa.s.sant. After that he buys more beer, and we roam airily over the fields of literature, plucking here and there a blossom of quotation. A fine talk, vivid and eager. It puts me into a kind of glow.

MacBean pays the bill from a handful of big notes, and the thought of my own empty pockets for a moment damps me. However, when we rise to go, it is well after midnight, and I am in a pleasant daze. The rest of the evening may be summed up in the following jingle:

Noctambule

Zut! it's two o'clock.

See! the lights are jumping.

Finish up your _bock_, Time we all were humping.

Waiters stack the chairs, Pile them on the tables; Let us to our lairs Underneath the gables.

Up the old Boul' Mich'

Climb with steps erratic.

Steady . . . how I wish I was in my attic!

Full am I with cheer; In my heart the joy stirs; Couldn't be the beer, Must have been the oysters.

In obscene array Garbage cans spill over; How I wish that they Smelled as sweet as clover!

Charing women wait; Cafes drop their shutters; Rats perambulate Up and down the gutters.

Down the darkened street Market carts are creeping; Horse with wary feet, Red-faced driver sleeping.

Loads of vivid greens, Carrots, leeks, potatoes, Cabbages and beans, Turnips and tomatoes.

Pair of dapper chaps, Cigarettes and sashes, Stare at me, perhaps Desperate _Apaches_.

"Needn't bother me, Jolly well you know it; _Parceque je suis Quartier Latin poete._

"Give you villanelles, Madrigals and lyrics; Ballades and rondels, Odes and panegyrics.

Poet pinched and poor, p.r.i.c.ked by cold and hunger; Trouble's troubadour, Misery's balladmonger."

Think how queer it is!

Every move I'm making, Cosmic gravity's Center I am shaking; Oh, how droll to feel (As I now am feeling), Even as I reel, All the world is reeling.

Reeling too the stars, Neptune and Ura.n.u.s, Jupiter and Mars, Mercury and Venus; Suns and moons with me, As I'm homeward straying, All in sympathy Swaying, swaying, swaying.

Lord! I've got a head.

Well, it's not surprising.

I must gain my bed Ere the sun be rising; When the merry lark In the sky is soaring, I'll refuse to hark, I'll be snoring, snoring.

Strike a sulphur match . . .

Ha! at last my garret.

Fumble at the latch, Close the door and bar it.

Bed, you graciously Wait, despite my scorning . . .

So, bibaciously Mad old world, good morning.

III

My Garret,

Montparna.s.se, April.

Insomnia

Heigh ho! to sleep I vainly try; Since twelve I haven't closed an eye, And now it's three, and as I lie, From Notre Dame to St. Denis The bells of Paris chime to me; "You're young," they say, "and strong and free."

I do not turn with sighs and groans To ease my limbs, to rest my bones, As if my bed were stuffed with stones, No peevish murmur tips my tongue-- Ah no! for every sound upflung Says: "Lad, you're free and strong and young."

And so beneath the sheet's caress My body purrs with happiness; Joy bubbles in my veins. . . . Ah yes, My very blood that leaps along Is chiming in a joyous song, Because I'm young and free and strong.

Maybe it is the springtide. I am so happy I am afraid. The sense of living fills me with exultation. I want to sing, to dance; I am dithyrambic with delight.

I think the moon must be to blame: It fills the room with fairy flame; It paints the wall, it seems to pour A dappled flood upon the floor.

I rise and through the window stare . . .