Ballads of a Bohemian | Page 4

~Chez Moi~,
Montparnasse,
~The same
evening~.

To-day is an anniversary. A year ago to-day I kicked over an office
stool and came to 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