Ballads of a Bohemian | Page 4

Paris thinking to make a living by my pen. I was twenty then, and in my pocket I had twenty pounds. Of that, my ten ~sous~ are all that remain. And so to-night I am going to spend them, not prudently on bread, but prodigally on beer.
As I stroll down the Boul' Mich' the lingering light has all the exquisite tenderness of violet; the trees are in their first translucent green; beneath them the lamps are lit with purest gold, and from the Little Luxembourg comes a silver jangle of tiny voices. Taking the gay side of the street, I enter a cafe. Although it isn't its true name, I choose to call my cafe --
~L'Escargot D'Or~
O Tavern of the Golden Snail!?Ten ~sous~ have I, so I'll regale;?Ten ~sous~ your amber brew to sip?(Eight for the ~bock~ and two the tip),?And so I'll sit the evening long,?And smoke my pipe and watch the throng,?The giddy crowd that drains and drinks,?I'll watch it quiet as a sphinx;?And who among them all shall buy?For ten poor ~sous~ such joy as I??As I who, snugly tucked away,?Look on it all as on a play,?A frolic scene of love and fun,?To please an audience of One.
O Tavern of the Golden Snail!?You've stuff indeed for many a tale.?All eyes, all ears, I nothing miss:?Two lovers lean to clasp and kiss;?The merry students sing and shout,?The nimble ~garcons~ dart about;?Lo! here come Mimi and Musette?With: "~S'il vous plait, une cigarette?~"?Marcel and Rudolf, Shaunard too,?Behold the old rapscallion crew,?With flowing tie and shaggy head . . .?Who says Bohemia is dead??Oh shades of Murger! prank and clown,?And I will watch and write it down.
O Tavern of the Golden Snail!?What crackling throats have gulped your ale!?What sons of Fame from far and near?Have glowed and mellowed in your cheer!?Within this corner where I sit?Banville and Coppe/e clashed their wit;?And hither too, to dream and drain,?And drown despair, came poor Verlaine.?Here Wilde would talk and Synge would muse,?Maybe like me with just ten ~sous~.?Ah! one is lucky, is one not??With ghosts so rare to drain a pot!?So may your custom never fail,?O Tavern of the Golden Snail!
There! my pipe is out. Let me light it again and consider. I have no illusions about myself. I am not fool enough to think I am a poet, but I have a knack of rhyme and I love to make verses.?Mine is a tootling, tin-whistle music. Humbly and afar I follow in the footsteps of Praed and Lampson, of Field and Riley, hoping that in time my Muse may bring me bread and butter. So far, however, it has been all kicks and no coppers. And to-night I am at the end of my tether. I wish I knew where to-morrow's breakfast was coming from.?Well, since rhyming's been my ruin, let me rhyme to the bitter end.
It Is Later Than You Think
Lone amid the cafe's cheer,?Sad of heart am I to-night;?Dolefully I drink my beer,?But no single line I write.?There's the wretched rent to pay,?Yet I glower at pen and ink:?Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray,?~It is later than you think!~
Hello! there's a pregnant phrase.?Bravo! let me write it down;?Hold it with a hopeful gaze,?Gauge it with a fretful frown;?Tune it to my lyric lyre . . .?Ah! upon starvation's brink,?How the words are dark and dire:?It is later than you think.
Weigh them well. . . . Behold yon band,?Students drinking by the door,?Madly merry, ~bock~ in hand,?Saucers stacked to mark their score.?Get you gone, you jolly scamps;?Let your parting glasses clink;?Seek your long neglected lamps:?It is later than you think.
Look again: yon dainty blonde,?All allure and golden grace,?Oh so willing to respond?Should you turn a smiling face.?Play your part, poor pretty doll;?Feast and frolic, pose and prink;?There's the Morgue to end it all,?And it's later than you think.
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 pass?With a wild and wolfish stare?At each empty absinthe glass,?As if he saw Heaven there.?Poor damned 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!?God! 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,