The Omnium Bar, near the Bourse,
Late July 1914.
MacBean, before he settled down to the manufacture of mercantile fiction, had ideas of a nobler sort, which bore their fruit in a slender book of poems. In subject they are either erotic, mythologic, or descriptive of nature. So polished are they that the mind seems to slide over them: so faultless in form that the critics hailed them with highest praise, and as many as a hundred copies were sold.
Saxon Dane, too, has published a book of poems, but he, on the other hand, defies tradition to an eccentric degree. Originality is his sin. He strains after it in every line. I must confess I think much of the free verse he writes is really prose, and a good deal of it blank verse chopped up into odd lengths. He talks of assonance and color, of stress and pause and accent, and bewilders me with his theories.
He and MacBean represent two extremes, and at night, as we sit in the Cafe du Dôme, they have the hottest of arguments. As for me, I listen with awe, content that my medium is verse, and that the fashions of Hood, Thackeray and Bret Harte are the fashions of to-day.
Of late I have been doing light stuff, "fillers" for MacBean. Here are three of my specimens:
Oh, have you forgotten those afternoonsWith riot of roses and amber skies,When we thrilled to the joy of a million Junes,And I sought for your soul in the deeps of your eyes?I would love you, I promised, forever and aye,And I meant it too; yet, oh, isn't it odd?When we met in the Underground to-dayI addressed you as Mary instead of as Maude.Oh, don't you remember that moonlit sea,With us on a silver trail afloat,When I gracefully sank on my bended kneeAt the risk of upsetting our little boat?Oh, I vowed that my life was blighted then,As friendship you proffered with mournful mien;But now as I think of your children ten,I'm glad you refused me, Evangeline.Oh, is that moment eternal stillWhen I breathed my love in your shell-like ear,And you plucked at your fan as a maiden will,And you blushed so charmingly, Guenivere?Like a worshiper at your feet I sat;For a year and a day you made me mad;But now, alas! you are forty, fat,And I think: What a lucky escape I had!Oh, maidens I've set in a sacred shrine,Oh, Rosamond, Molly and Mignonette,I've deemed you in turn the most divine,In turn you've broken my heart . . . and yetIt's easily mended. What's past is past.To-day on Lucy I'm going to call;For I'm sure that I know true love at last,AndSheis the fairest girl of all.
"Sow your wild oats in your youth," so we're always told;But I say with deeper sooth: "Sow them when you're old."I'll be wise till I'm about seventy or so:Then, by Gad! I'll blossom out as an ancientbeau.I'll assume a dashing air, laugh with loud Ha! ha! . . .How my grandchildren will stare at their grandpapa!Their perfection aureoled I will scandalize:Won't I be a hoary old sinner in their eyes!Watch me, how I'll learn to chaff barmaids in a bar;Scotches daily, gayly quaff, puff a fierce cigar.I will haunt the Tango teas, at the stage-door stand;Wait for Dolly Dimpleknees, bouquet in my hand.Then at seventy I'll take flutters at roulette;While at eighty hope I'll make good at poker yet;And in fashionable togs to the races go,Gayest of the gay old dogs, ninety years or so."Sow your wild oats while you're young," that's what you are told;Don't believe the foolish tongue—sow 'em when you're old.Till you're threescore years and ten, take my humble tip,Sow your nice tame oats and then . . . Hi, boys! Let 'er rip.
It's slim and trim and bound in blue;Its leaves are crisp and edged with gold;Its words are simple, stalwart too;Its thoughts are tender, wise and bold.Its pages scintillate with wit;Its pathos clutches at my throat:Oh, how I love each line of it!That Little Book I Never Wrote.In dreams I see it praised and prizedBy all, from plowman unto peer;It's pencil-marked and memorized,It's loaned (and not returned, I fear);It's worn and torn and travel-tossed,And even dusky natives quoteThat classic that the world has lost,The Little Book I Never Wrote.Poor ghost! For homes you've failed to cheer,For grieving hearts uncomforted,Don't haunt me now. . . . Alas! I fearThe fire of Inspiration's dead.A humdrum way I go to-night,From all I hoped and dreamed remote:Too late . . . a better man must writeThat Little Book I Never Wrote.
Talking about writing books, there is a queer character who shuffles up and down the little streets that neighbor the Place Maubert, and who, they say, has been engaged on one for years. Sometimes I see him cowering in some cheapbouge, and his wild eyes gleam at me through the tangle of his hair. But I do not think he ever sees me. He mumbles to himself, and moves like a man in a dream. His pockets are full of filthy paper on which he writes from time to time. The students laugh at him and make him tipsy; the street boys pelt him with ordure; the better cafes turn him from their doors. But who knows? At least, this is how I see him:
Before I drink myself to death,God, let me finish up my Book!At night, I fear, I fight for breath,And wake up whiter than a spook;And crawl off to abistronear,And drink until my brain is clear.Rare Absinthe! Oh, it gives me strengthTo write and write; and so I spendDay after day, until at lengthWith joy and pain I'll write The End:Then let this carcase rot; I giveThe world my Book—my Book will live.For every line is tense with truth,There's hope and joy on every page;A cheer, a clarion call to Youth,A hymn, a comforter to Age:All's there that I was meant to be,My part divine, the God in me.It's of my life the golden sum;Ah! who that reads this Book of mine,In stormy centuries to come,Will dream I rooted with the swine?Behold! I give mankind my best:What does it matter, all the rest?It's this that makes sublime my day;It's this that makes me struggle on.Oh, let them mock my mortal clay,My spirit's deathless as the dawn;Oh, let them shudder as they look . . .I'll be immortal in my Book.And so beside the sullen SeineI fight with dogs for filthy food,Yet know that from my sin and painWill soar serene a Something Good;Exultantly from shame and wrongA Right, a Glory and a Song.
How charming it is, this Paris of the summer skies! Each morning I leap up with joy in my heart, all eager to begin the day of work. As I eat my breakfast and smoke my pipe, I ponder over my task. Then in the golden sunshine that floods my little attic I pace up and down, absorbed and forgetful of the world. As I compose I speak the words aloud. There are difficulties to overcome; thoughts that will not fit their mold; rebellious rhymes. Ah! those moments of despair and defeat.
Then suddenly the mind grows lucid, imagination glows, the snarl unravels. In the end is always triumph and success. O delectablemétier! Who would not be a rhymesmith in Paris, in Bohemia, in the heart of youth!
I have now finished my twentieth ballad. Five more and they will be done. In quiet corners of cafes, on benches of the Luxembourg, on the sunny Quays I read them over one by one. Here is my latest:
Day after day behold me plyingMy pen within an office drear;The dullest dog, till homeward hieing,Then lo! I reign a king of cheer.A throne have I of padded leather,A little court of kiddies three,A wife who smiles whate'er the weather,A feast of muffins, jam and tea.The table cleared, a romping battle,A fairy tale, a "Children, bed,"A kiss, a hug, a hush of prattle(God save each little drowsy head!)A cozy chat with wife a-sewing,A silver lining clouds that low'r,Then she too goes, and with her going,I come again into my Hour.I poke the fire, I snugly settle,My pipe I prime with proper care;The water's purring in the kettle,Rum, lemon, sugar, all are there.And now the honest grog is steaming,And now the trusty briar's aglow:Alas! in smoking, drinking, dreaming,How sadly swift the moments go!Oh, golden hour! 'twixt love and duty,All others I to others give;But you are mine to yield to Beauty,To glean Romance, to greatly live.For in my easy-chair reclining . . .I feel the sting of ocean spray;And yonder wondrously are shiningThe Magic Isles of Far Away.Beyond the comber's crashing thunderStrange beaches flash into my ken;On jetties heaped head-high with plunderI dance and dice with sailor-men.Strange stars swarm down to burn above me,Strange shadows haunt, strange voices greet;Strange women lure and laugh and love me,And fling their bastards at my feet.Oh, I would wish the wide world over,In ports of passion and unrest,To drink and drain, a tarry roverWith dragons tattooed on my chest,With haunted eyes that hold red gloriesOf foaming seas and crashing shores,With lips that tell the strangest storiesOf sunken ships and gold moidores;Till sick of storm and strife and slaughter,Some ghostly night when hides the moon,I slip into the milk-warm waterAnd softly swim the stale lagoon.Then through some jungle python-haunted,Or plumed morass, or woodland wild,I win my way with heart undaunted,And all the wonder of a child.The pathless plains shall swoon around me,The forests frown, the floods appall;The mountains tiptoe to confound me,The rivers roar to speed my fall.Wild dooms shall daunt, and dawns be gory,And Death shall sit beside my knee;Till after terror, torment, glory,I win again the sea, the sea. . . .Oh, anguish sweet! Oh, triumph splendid!Oh, dreams adieu! my pipe is dead.My glass is dry, my Hour is ended,It's time indeed I stole to bed.How peacefully the house is sleeping!Ah! why should I strange fortunes plan?To guard the dear ones in my keeping—That's task enough for any man.So through dim seas I'll ne'er go spoiling;The red Tortugas never roam;Please God! I'll keep the pot a-boiling,And make at least a happy home.My children's path shall gleam with roses,Their grace abound, their joy increase.And so my Hour divinely closesWith tender thoughts of praise and peace.
The Garden of the Luxembourg,
Late July 1914.
When on some scintillating summer morning I leap lightly up to the seclusion of my garret, I often think of those lines: "In the brave days when I was twenty-one."
True, I have no loving, kind Lisette to pin her petticoat across the pane, yet I do live in hope. Am I not in Bohemia the Magical, Bohemia of Murger, of de Musset, of Verlaine? Shades of Mimi Pinson, of Trilby, of all that immortal line of laughterful grisettes, do not tell me that the days of love and fun are forever at an end!
Yes, youth is golden, but what of age? Shall it too not testify to the rhapsody of existence? Let the years between be those of struggle, of sufferance—of disillusion if you will; but let youth and age affirm the ecstasy of being. Let us look forward all to a serene sunset, and in the still skies "a late lark singing".
This thought comes to me as, sitting on a bench near the band-stand, I see an old savant who talks to all the children. His clean-shaven face is alive with kindliness; under his tall silk hat his white hair falls to his shoulders. He wears a long black cape over a black frock-coat, very neat linen, and a flowing tie of black silk. I call him "Silvester Bonnard". As I look at him I truly think the best of life are the years between sixty and seventy.
Brave Thackeray has trolled of days when he was twenty-one,And bounded up five flights of stairs, a gallant garreteer;And yet again in mellow vein when youth was gaily run,Has dipped his nose in Gascon wine, and told of Forty Year.But if I worthy were to sing a richer, rarer time,I'd tune my pipes before the fire and merrily I'd striveTo praise that age when prose again has given way to rhyme,The Indian Summer days of life when I'll be Sixty-five;For then my work will all be done, my voyaging be past,And I'll have earned the right to rest where folding hills are green;So in some glassy anchorage I'll make my cable fast,—Oh, let the seas show all their teeth, I'll sit and smile serene.The storm may bellow round the roof, I'll bide beside the fire,And many a scene of sail and trail within the flame I'll see;For I'll have worn away the spur of passion and desire. . . .Oh yes, when I am Sixty-five, what peace will come to me.I'll take my breakfast in my bed, I'll rise at half-past ten,When all the world is nicely groomed and full of golden song;I'll smoke a bit and joke a bit, and read the news, and thenI'll potter round my peach-trees till I hear the luncheon gong.And after that I think I'll doze an hour, well, maybe two,And then I'll show some kindred soul how well my roses thrive;I'll do the things I never yet have found the time to do. . . .Oh, won't I be the busy man when I am Sixty-five.I'll revel in my library; I'll read De Morgan's books;I'll grow so garrulous I fear you'll write me down a bore;I'll watch the ways of ants and bees in quiet sunny nooks,I'll understand Creation as I never did before.When gossips round the tea-cups talk I'll listen to it all;On smiling days some kindly friend will take me for a drive:I'll own a shaggy collie dog that dashes to my call:I'll celebrate my second youth when I am Sixty-five.Ah, though I've twenty years to go, I see myself quite plain,A wrinkling, twinkling, rosy-cheeked, benevolent old chap;I think I'll wear a tartan shawl and lean upon a cane.I hope that I'll have silver hair beneath a velvet cap.I see my little grandchildren a-romping round my knee;So gay the scene, I almost wish 'twould hasten to arrive.Let others sing of Youth and Spring, still will it seem to meThe golden time's the olden time, some time round Sixty-five.
From old men to children is but a step, and there too, in the shadow of the Fontaine de Medicis, I spend much of my time watching the little ones. Childhood, so innocent, so helpless, so trusting, is somehow pathetic to me.
There was one jolly little chap who used to play with a large white Teddy Bear. He was always with his mother, a sweet-faced woman, who followed his every movement with delight. I used to watch them both, and often spoke a few words.
Then one day I missed them, and it struck me I had not seen them for a week, even a month, maybe. After that I looked for them a time or two and soon forgot.
Then this morning I saw the mother in the rue D'Assas. She was alone and in deep black. I wanted to ask after the boy, but there was a look in her face that stopped me.
I do not think she will ever enter the garden of the Luxembourg again.
O Teddy Bear! with your head awryAnd your comical twisted smile,You rub your eyes—do you wonder whyYou've slept such a long, long while?As you lay so still in the cupboard dim,And you heard on the roof the rain,Were you thinking . . . what has become ofhim?And when will he play again?Do you sometimes long for a chubby hand,And a voice so sweetly shrill?O Teddy Bear! don't you understandWhy the house is awf'ly still?You sit with your muzzle propped on your paws,And your whimsical face askew.Don't wait, don't wait for your friend . . . becauseHe's sleeping and dreaming too.Aye, sleeping long. . . . You remember howHe stabbed our hearts with his cries?And oh, the dew of pain on his brow,And the deeps of pain in his eyes!And, Teddy Bear! you remember, too,As he sighed and sank to his rest,How all of a sudden he smiled to you,And he clutched you close to his breast.I'll put you away, little Teddy Bear,In the cupboard far from my sight;Maybe he'll come and he'll kiss you there,A wee white ghost in the night.But me, I'll live with my love and painA weariful lifetime through;And my Hope: will I see him again, again?Ah, God! If I only knew!
After old men and children I am greatly interested in dogs. I will go out of my way to caress one who shows any desire to be friendly. There is a very filthy fellow who collects cigarette stubs on the Boul' Mich', and who is always followed by a starved yellow cur. The other day I came across them in a little side street. The man was stretched on the pavement brutishly drunk and dead to the world. The dog, lying by his side, seemed to look at me with sad, imploring eyes. Though all the world despise that man, I thought, this poor brute loves him and will be faithful unto death.
From this incident I wrote the verses that follow:
A wild and woeful race he ranOf lust and sin by land and sea;Until, abhorred of God and man,They swung him from the gallows-tree.And then he climbed the Starry Stair,And dumb and naked and alone,With head unbowed and brazen glare,He stood before the Judgment Throne.The Keeper of the Records spoke:"This man, O Lord, has mocked Thy Name.The weak have wept beneath his yoke,The strong have fled before his flame.The blood of babes is on his sword;His life is evil to the brim:Look down, decree his doom, O Lord!Lo! there is none will speak for him."The golden trumpets blew a blastThat echoed in the crypts of Hell,For there was Judgment to be passed,And lips were hushed and silence fell.The man was mute; he made no stir,Erect before the Judgment Seat . . .When all at once a mongrel curCrept out and cowered and licked his feet.It licked his feet with whining cry.Come Heav'n, come Hell, what did it care?It leapt, it tried to catch his eye;Its master, yea, its God was there.Then, as a thrill of wonder spedThrough throngs of shining seraphim,The Judge of All looked down and said:"Lo! here is ONE who pleads for him."And who shall love of these the least,And who by word or look or deedShall pity show to bird or beast,By Me shall have a friend in need.Aye, though his sin be black as night,And though he stand 'mid men alone,He shall be softened in My sight,And find a pleader by My Throne."So let this man to glory win;From life to life salvation glean;By pain and sacrifice and sin,Until he stand before Me—clean.For he who loves the least of these(And here I say and here repeat)Shall win himself an angel's pleasFor Mercy at My Judgment Seat."
I take my exercise in the form of walking. It keeps me fit and leaves me free to think. In this way I have come to know Paris like my pocket. I have explored its large and little streets, its stateliness and its slums.
But most of all I love the Quays, between the leafage and the sunlit Seine. Like shuttles the little steamers dart up and down, weaving the water into patterns of foam. Cigar-shaped barges stream under the lacework of the many bridges and make me think of tranquil days and willow-fringed horizons.
But what I love most is the stealing in of night, when the sky takes on that strange elusive purple; when eyes turn to the evening star and marvel at its brightness; when the Eiffel Tower becomes a strange, shadowy stairway yearning in impotent effort to the careless moon.
Here is my latest ballad, short if not very sweet:
(He speaks.)Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking!Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high;Striding up the green hills, through the heather stalking,Swishing through the woodlands where the brown leaves lie;Marveling at all things—windmills gaily turning,Apples for the cider-press, ruby-hued and gold;Tails of rabbits twinkling, scarlet berries burning,Wedge of geese high-flying in the sky's clear cold,Light in little windows, field and furrow darkling;Home again returning, hungry as a hawk;Whistling up the garden, ruddy-cheeked and sparkling,Oh, but I am happy as I walk, walk, walk!
(She speaks.)Walking, walking, oh, the curse of walking!Slouching round the grim square, shuffling up the street,Slinking down the by-way, all my graces hawking,Offering my body to each man I meet.Peering in the gin-shop where the lads are drinking,Trying to look gay-like, crazy with the blues;Halting in a doorway, shuddering and shrinking(Oh, my draggled feather and my thin, wet shoes).Here's a drunken drover: "Hullo, there, old dearie!"No, he only curses, can't be got to talk. . . .On and on till daylight, famished, wet and weary,God in Heaven help me as I walk, walk, walk!
The Cafe de la Source,
Late in July 1914.
The other evening MacBean was in a pessimistic mood.
"Why do you write?" he asked me gloomily.
"Obviously," I said, "to avoid starving. To produce something that will buy me food, shelter, raiment."
"If you were a millionaire, would you still write?"
"Yes," I said, after a moment's thought. "You get an idea. It haunts you. It seems to clamor for expression. It begins to obsess you. At last in desperation you embody it in a poem, an essay, a story. There! it is disposed of. You are at rest. It troubles you no more. Yes; if I were a millionaire I should write, if it were only to escape from my ideas."
"You have given two reasons why men write," said MacBean: "for gain, for self-expression. Then, again, some men write to amuse themselves, some because they conceive they have a mission in the world; some because they have real genius, and are conscious they can enrich the literature of all time. I must say I don't know of any belonging to the latter class. We are living in an age of mediocrity. There is no writer of to-day who will be read twenty years after he is dead. That's a truth that must come home to the best of them."
"I guess they're not losing much sleep over it," I said.
"Take novelists," continued MacBean. "The line of first-class novelists ended with Dickens and Thackeray. Then followed some of the second class, Stevenson, Meredith, Hardy. And to-day we have three novelists of the third class, good, capable craftsmen. We can trust ourselves comfortably in their hands. We read and enjoy them, but do you think our children will?"
"Yours won't, anyway," I said.
"Don't be too sure. I may surprise you yet. I may get married and turnbourgeois."
The best thing that could happen to MacBean would be that. It might change his point of view. He is so painfully discouraging. I have never mentioned my ballads to him. He would be sure to throw cold water on them. And as it draws near to its end the thought of my book grows more and more dear to me. How I will get it published I know not; but I will. Then even if it doesn't sell, even if nobody reads it, I will be content. Out of this brief, perishable Me I will have made something concrete, something that will preserve my thought within its dusty covers long after I am dead and dust.
Here is one of my latest:
Blind Peter Piper used to playAll up and down the city;I'd often meet him on my way,And throw a coin for pity.But all amid his sparkling tonesHis ear was quick as anyTo catch upon the cobble-stonesThe jingle of my penny.And as upon a day that shoneHe piped a merry measure:"How well you play!" I chanced to say;Poor Peter glowed with pleasure.You'd think the words of praise I spokeWere all the pay he needed;The artist in the player woke,The penny lay unheeded.Now Winter's here; the wind is shrill,His coat is thin and tattered;Yet hark! he's playing trill on trillAs if his music mattered.And somehow though the city looksSoaked through and through with shadows,He makes you think of singing brooksAnd larks and sunny meadows.Poor chap! he often starves, they say;Well, well, I can believe it;For when you chuck a coin his wayHe'll let some street-boy thieve it.I fear he freezes in the night;My praise I've long repented,Yet look! his face is all alight . . .Blind Peter seems contented.
A day later.
On the terrace of the Closerie de Lilas I came on Saxon Dane. He was smoking his big briar and drinking a huge glass of brown beer. The tree gave a pleasant shade, and he had thrown his sombrero on a chair. I noted how his high brow was bronzed by the sun and there were golden lights in his broad beard. There was something massive and imposing in the man as he sat there in brooding thought.
MacBean, he told me, was sick and unable to leave his room. Rheumatism. So I bought a cooked chicken and a bottle of Barsac, and mounting to the apartment of the invalid, I made him eat and drink. MacBean was very despondent, but cheered up greatly.
I think he rather dreads the future. He cannot save money, and all he makes he spends. He has always been a rover, often tried to settle down but could not. Now I think he wishes for security. I fear, however, it is too late.
I sought the trails of South and North,I wandered East and West;But pride and passion drove me forthAnd would not let me rest.And still I seek, as still I roam,A snug roof overhead;Four walls, my own; a quiet home. . . ."You'll have it—when you're dead."
MacBean is one of Bohemia's victims. It is a country of the young. The old have no place in it. He will gradually lose his grip, go down and down. I am sorry. He is my nearest approach to a friend. I do not make them easily. I have deep reserves. I like solitude. I am never so surrounded by boon companions as when I am all alone.
But though I am a solitary I realize the beauty of friendship, and on looking through my note-book I find the following:
If you had a friend strong, simple, true,Who knew your faults and who understood;Who believed in the very best of you,And who cared for you as a father would;Who would stick by you to the very end,Who would smile however the world might frown:I'm sure you would try to please your friend,You never would think to throw him down.And supposing your friend was high and great,And he lived in a palace rich and tall,And sat like a King in shining state,And his praise was loud on the lips of all;Well then, when he turned to you alone,And he singled you out from all the crowd,And he called you up to his golden throne,Oh, wouldn't you just be jolly proud?If you had a friend like this, I say,So sweet and tender, so strong and true,You'd try to please him in every way,You'd live at your bravest—now, wouldn't you?His worth would shine in the words you penned;You'd shout his praises . . . yet now it's odd!You tell me you haven't got such a friend;You haven't? I wonder . . .What of God?
To how few is granted the privilege of doing the work which lies closest to the heart, the work for which one is best fitted. The happy man is he who knows his limitations, yet bows to no false gods.
MacBean is not happy. He is overridden by his appetites, and to satisfy them he writes stuff that in his heart he despises.
Saxon Dane is not happy. His dream exceeds his grasp. His twisted, tortured phrases mock the vague grandiosity of his visions.
I am happy. My talent is proportioned to my ambition. The things I like to write are the things I like to read. I prefer the lesser poets to the greater, the cackle of the barnyard fowl to the scream of the eagle. I lack the divinity of discontent.
True Contentment comes from within. It dominates circumstance. It is resignation wedded to philosophy, a Christian quality seldom attained except by the old.
There is such an one I sometimes see being wheeled about in the Luxembourg. His face is beautiful in its thankfulness.
"How good God is to me," he said;"For have I not a mansion tall,With trees and lawns of velvet tread,And happy helpers at my call?With beauty is my life abrim,With tranquil hours and dreams apart;You wonder that I yield to HimThat best of prayers, a grateful heart?""How good God is to me," he said;"For look! though gone is all my wealth,How sweet it is to earn one's breadWith brawny arms and brimming health.Oh, now I know the joy of strife!To sleep so sound, to wake so fit.Ah yes, how glorious is life!I thank Him for each day of it.""How good God is to me," he said;"Though health and wealth are gone, it's true;Things might be worse, I might be dead,And here I'm living, laughing too.Serene beneath the evening skyI wait, and every man's my friend;God's most contented man am I . . .He keeps me smiling to the End."
To-day the basin of the Luxembourg is bright with little boats. Hundreds of happy children romp around it. Little ones everywhere; yet there is no other city with so many childless homes.
The Spirit of the Unborn Babe peered through the window-pane,Peered through the window-pane that glowed like beacon in the night;For, oh, the sky was desolate and wild with wind and rain;And how the little room was crammed with coziness and light!Except the flirting of the fire there was no sound at all;The Woman sat beside the hearth, her knitting on her knee;The shadow of her husband's head was dancing on the wall;She looked with staring eyes at it, she looked yet did not see.She only saw a childish face that topped the table rim,A little wistful ghost that smiled and vanished quick away;And then because her tender eyes were flooding to the brim,She lowered her head. . . . "Don't sorrow, dear," she heard him softly say;"It's over now. We'll try to be as happy as before(Ah! they who little children have, grant hostages to pain).We gave Life chance to wound us once, but never, never more. . . ."The Spirit of the Unborn Babe fled through the night again.The Spirit of the Unborn Babe went wildered in the dark;Like termagants the winds tore down and whirled it with the snow.And then amid the writhing storm it saw a tiny spark,A window broad, a spacious room all goldenly aglow,A woman slim and Paris-gowned and exquisitely fair,Who smiled with rapture as she watched her jewels catch the blaze;A man in faultless evening dress, young, handsome, debonnaire,Who smoked his cigarette and looked with frank admiring gaze."Oh, we are happy, sweet," said he; "youth, health, and wealth are ours.What if a thousand toil and sweat that we may live at ease!What if the hands are worn and torn that strew our path with flowers!Ah, well! we did not make the world; let us not think of these.Let's seek the beauty-spots of earth, Dear Heart, just you and I;Let other women bring forth life with sorrow and with pain.Above our door we'll hang the sign: 'No children need apply. . . .'"The Spirit of the Unborn Babe sped through the night again.The Spirit of the Unborn Babe went whirling on and on;It soared above a city vast, it swept down to a slum;It saw within a grimy house a light that dimly shone;It peered in through a window-pane and lo! a voice said: "Come!"And so a little girl was born amid the dirt and din,And lived in spite of everything, for life is ordered so;A child whose eyes first opened wide to swinishness and sin,A child whose love and innocence met only curse and blow.And so in due and proper course she took the path of shame,And gladly died in hospital, quite old at twenty years;And when God comes to weigh it all, ah! whose shall be the blameFor all her maimed and poisoned life, her torture and her tears?For oh, it is not what we do, but what we have not done!And on that day of reckoning, when all is plain and clear,What if we stand before the Throne, blood-guilty every one? . . .Maybe the blackest sins of all are Selfishness and Fear.
The Cafe de la Paix, August 1, 1914.
Paris and I are out of tune. As I sit at this famous corner the faint breeze is stale and weary; stale and weary too the faces that swirl around me; while overhead the electric sign of Somebody's Chocolate appears and vanishes with irritating insistency. The very trees seem artificial, gleaming under the arc-lights with a raw virility that rasps my nerves.
"Poor little trees," I mutter, "growing in all this grime and glare, your only dryads the loitering ladies with the complexions of such brilliant certainty, your only Pipes of Pan orchestral echoes from the clamorous cafes. Exiles of the forest! what know you of full-blossomed winds, of red-embered sunsets, of the gentle admonition of spring rain! Life, that would fain be a melody, seems here almost a malady. I crave for the balm of Nature, the anodyne of solitude, the breath of Mother Earth. Tell me, O wistful trees, what shall I do?"
Then that stale and weary wind rustles the leaves of the nearest sycamore, and I am sure it whispers: "Brittany."
So to-morrow I am off, off to the Land of Little Fields.
Hurrah! I'm off to Finistère, to Finistère, to Finistère;My satchel's swinging on my back, my staff is in my hand;I've twentylouisin my purse, I know the sun and sea are there,And so I'm starting out to-day to tramp the golden land.I'll go alone and glorying, with on my lips a song of joy;I'll leave behind the city with its canker and its care;I'll swing along so sturdily—oh, won't I be the happy boy!A-singing on the rocky roads, the roads of Finistère.Oh, have you been to Finistère, and do you know a whin-gray townThat echoes to the clatter of a thousand wooden shoes?And have you seen the fisher-girls go gallivantin' up and down,And watched the tawny boats go out, and heard the roaring crews?Oh, would you sit with pipe and bowl, and dream upon some sunny quay,Or would you walk the windy heath and drink the cooler air;Oh, would you seek a cradled cove and tussle with the topaz sea!—Pack up your kit to-morrow, lad, and haste to Finistère.Oh, I will go to Finistère, there's nothing that can hold me back.I'll laugh with Yves and Léon, and I'll chaff with Rose and Jeanne;I'll seek the little, quaintbuvettethat's kept by Mother MerdrinaçWho wears a cap of many frills, and swears just like a man.I'll yarn with hearty, hairy chaps who dance and leap and crack their heels;Who swallow cupfuls of cognac and never turn a hair;I'll watch the nut-brown boats come in with mullet, plaice and conger eels,The jeweled harvest of the sea they reap in Finistère.Yes, I'll come back from Finistère with memories of shining days,Of scaly nets and salty men in overalls of brown;Of ancient women knitting as they watch the tethered cattle grazeBy little nestling beaches where the gorse goes blazing down;Of headlands silvering the sea, of Calvarys against the sky,Of scorn of angry sunsets, and of Carnac grim and bare;Oh, won't I have the leaping veins, and tawny cheek and sparkling eye,When I come back to Montparnasse and dream of Finistère.
Two days later.
Behold me with staff and scrip, footing it merrily in the Land of Pardons. I have no goal. When I am weary I stop at someauberge; when I am rested I go on again. Neither do I put any constraint on my spirit. No subduing of the mind to the task of the moment. I dream to heart's content.
My dreams stretch into the future. I see myself a singer of simple songs, a laureate of the under-dog. I will write books, a score of them. I will voyage far and wide. I will . . .
But there! Dreams are dangerous. They waste the time one should spend in making them come true. Yet when we do make them come true, we find the vision sweeter than the reality. How much of our happiness do we owe to dreams? I have in mind one old chap who used to herd the sheep on my uncle's farm.