Chapter 151

LXXTill he was thirty years of age, the veinPoetic yielded rhyme by drops and spirts:In verses of society had lainHis talent chiefly; but the Muse assertsPrivilege most by treating with disdainEpics the bard mouths out, or odes he blurtsSpasmodically forth. Have people timeAnd patience nowadays for thought in rhyme?LXXISo, his achievements were the quatrain's inchOf homage, or at most the sonnet's ellOf admiration: welded lines with clinchOf ending word and word, to every belleIn Croisic's bounds; these, brisk as any finch,He twittered till his fame had reached as wellGuérande as Batz; but there fame stopped, for—curseOn fortune—outside lay the universe!LXXIIThat 's Paris. Well,—why not break bounds, and sendSong onward till it echo at the gatesOf Paris whither all ambitions tend,And end too, seeing that success there satesThe soul which hungers most for fame? Why spendA minute in deciding, while, by Fate'sDecree, there happens to be just the prizeProposed there, suiting souls that poetize?LXXIIIA prize indeed, the Academy's own selfProposes to what bard shall best inditeA piece describing how, through shoal and shelf,The Art of Navigation; steered aright,Has, in our last king's reign,—the lucky elf,—Reached, one may say, Perfection's haven quite,And there cast anchor. At a glance one seesThe subject's crowd of capabilities!LXXIVNeptune and Amphitrité! Thetis, whoIs either Tethys or as good—both tag!Triton can shove along a vessel too:It 's Virgil! Then the winds that blow or lag,—De Maille, Vendôme, Vermandois! Toulouse blewLongest, we reckon: he must puff the flagTo fullest outflare; while our lacking nymphBe Anne of Austria, Regent o'er the lymph!LXXVPromised, performed! Sinceirritabilis gensHolds of the feverish impotence that strivesTo stay an itch by prompt resource to pen'sScratching itself on paper; placid lives,Leisurely works mark thedivinior mens:Bees brood above the honey in their hives;Gnats are the busy bustlers. Splash and scrawl,—Completed lay thy piece, swift penman Paul!LXXVITo Paris with the product! This dispatched,One had to wait the Forty's slow and sureVerdict, as best one might. Our penman scratchedAway perforce the itch that knows no cureBut daily paper-friction: more than matchedHis first feat by a second—tribute pureAnd heartfelt to the Forty when their voiceShould peal with one accord "Be Paul our choice!"LXXVIIScratch, scratch went much laudation of that saneAnd sound Tribunal, delegates augustOf Phœbus and the Muses' sacred train—Whom every poetaster tries to thrustFrom where, high-throned, they dominate the Seine:Fruitless endeavor,—fail it shall and must!Whereof in witness have not one and allThe Forty voices pealed "Our choice be Paul"?LXXVIIIThus Paul discounted his applause. AlackFor human expectation! Scarcely inkWas dry when, lo, the perfect piece came backRejected, shamed! Some other poet's clink"Thetis and Tethys" had seduced the packOf pedants to declare perfection's pinkA singularly poor production. "Whew!The Forty are stark fools, I always knew!"LXXIXFirst fury over (for Paul's race—to wit,Brain-vibrios—wriggle clear of protoplasmInto minute life that 's one fury-fit),"These fools shall find a bard's enthusiasmComports with what should counterbalance it—Some knowledge of the world! No doubt, orgasmEffects the birth of verse which, born, demandsProsaic ministration, swaddling-bands!LXXX"Verse must be cared for at this early stage,Handled, nay dandled even. I should playTheir game indeed if, till it grew of age,I meekly let these dotards frown awayMy bantling from the rightful heritageOf smiles and kisses! Let the public sayIf it be worthy praises or rebukes,My poem, from these Forty old perukes!"LXXXISo, by a friend, who boasts himself in graceWith no less than the Chevalier La Roque,—Eminent in those days for pride of place,Seeing he had it in his power to blockThe way or smooth the road to all the raceOf literators trudging up to knockAt Fame's exalted temple-door—for why?He edited the Paris "Mercury:"—LXXXIIBy this friend's help the Chevalier receivesPaul's poem, prefaced by the due appealTo Cæsar from the Jews. As duly heavesA sigh the Chevalier, about to dealWith case so customary—turns the leaves,Finds nothing there to borrow, beg, or steal—Then brightens up the critic's brow deep-lined."The thing may be so cleverly declined!"LXXXIIIDown to desk, out with paper, up with quill,Dip and indite! "Sir, gratitude immenseFor this true draught from the Pierian rill!Our Academic clodpoles must be denseIndeed to stand unirrigated still.No less, we critics dare not give offenceTo grandees like the Forty: while we mock,We grin and bear. So, here 's your piece! La Roque."LXXXIV"There now!" cries Paul: "the fellow can't avoidConfessing that my piece deserves the palm;And yet he dares not grant me space enjoyedBy every scribbler he permits embalmHis crambo in the Journal's corner! CloyedWith stuff like theirs, no wonder if a qualmBe caused by verse like mine: though that 's no causeFor his defrauding me of just applause.LXXXV"Aha, he fears the Forty, this poltroon?First let him fearme!Change smooth speech to rough!I 'll speak my mind out, show the fellow soonWho is the foe to dread: insist enoughOn my own merits till, as clear as noon,He sees I am no man to take rebuffAs patiently as scribblers may and must!Quick to the onslaught, out sword, cut and thrust!"LXXXVIAnd thereupon a fierce epistle flingsIts challenge in the critic's face. Alack!Our bard mistakes his man! The gauntlet ringsOn brazen visor proof against attack.Prompt from his editorial throne up springsThe insulted magnate, and his mace falls, thwack,On Paul's devoted brainpan,—quite awayFrom common courtesies of fencing-play!LXXXVII"Sir, will you have the truth? This piece of yoursIs simply execrable past belief.I shrank from saying so; but, since naught curesConceit but truth, truth 's at your service! Brief,Just so long as 'The Mercury' endures,So long are you excluded by its ChiefFrom corner, nay, from cranny! Play the cockO' the roost, henceforth, at Croisic!" wrote La Roque.LXXXVIIIPaul yellowed, whitened, as his wrath from redWaxed incandescent. Now, this man of rhymeWas merely foolish, faulty in the headNot heart of him: conceit 's a venial crime."Oh by no means malicious!" cousins said:Fussily feeble,—harmless all the time,Piddling at so-called satire—well-advised,He held in most awe whom he satirized.LXXXIXAccordingly his kith and kin—removedFrom emulation of the poet's giftBy power and will—these rather liked, nay, lovedThe man who gave his family a liftOut of the Croisic level; disapprovedSatire so trenchant." Thus our poet sniffedHome-incense, though too churlish to unlock"The Mercury's" box of ointment was La Roque.XCBut when Paul's visage grew from red to white,And from his lips a sort of mumbling fellOf who was to be kicked,—"And serve him right!"A gay voice interposed, "Did kicking wellAnswer the purpose! Only—if I mightSuggest as much—a far more potent spellLies in another kind of treatment. Oh,Women are ready at resource, you know!XCI"Talent should minister to genius! good:The proper and superior smile returns.Hear me with patience! Have you understoodThe only method whereby genius earnsFit guerdon nowadays? In knightly moodYou entered lists with visor up; one learnsToo late that, had you mounted Roland's crest,'Room!' they had roared—La Roque with all the rest!XCII"Why did you first of all transmit your pieceTo those same priggish Forty unpreparedWhether to rank you with the swans or geeseBy friendly intervention? If they daredCount you a cackler,—wonders never cease!I think it still more wondrous that you baredYour brow (my earlier image) as if praiseWere gained by simple fighting nowadays!XCIII"Your next step showed a touch of the true meansWhereby desert is crowned: not force but wileCame to the rescue. 'Get behind the scenes!'Your friend advised: he writes, sets forth your styleAnd title, to such purpose intervenesThat you get velvet-compliment three-pile;And, though 'The Mercury' said 'nay,' nor stockNor stone did his refusal prove La Roque.XCIV"Why must you needs revert to the high hand,Imperative procedure—what you call'Taking on merit your exclusive stand'?Stand, with a vengeance! Soon you went to wall.You and your merit! Only fools commandWhen folks are free to disobey them, Paul!You 've learnt your lesson, found out what 's o'clock,By this uncivil answer of La Roque.XCV"Now let me counsel! Lay this piece on shelf—Masterpiece though it be! From out your deskHand me some lighter sample, verse the elfCupid inspired you with, no god grotesquePresiding o'er the Navy! I myselfHand-write what 's legible yet picturesque;I 'll copy fair and femininely frockYour poem masculine that courts La Roque!XCVI"Deidamia he—Achilles thou!Ha, ha, these ancient stories come so apt!My sex, my youth, my rank I next avowIn a neat prayer for kind perusal. SappedI see the walls which stand so stoutly now!I see the toils about the game entrappedBy honest cunning! Chains of lady's-smock,Not thorn and thistle, tether fast La Roque!"XCVIINow, who might be the speaker sweet and archThat laughed above Paul's shoulder as it heavedWith the indignant heart?—bade steal a marchAnd not continue charging? Who conceivedThis plan which set our Paul, like pea you parchOn fire-shovel, skipping, of a load relieved,From arm-chair moodiness to escritoireSacred to Phœbus and the tuneful choir?XCVIIIWho but Paul's sister! named of course like him"Desforges;" but, mark you, in those days a queerCustom obtained,—who knows whence grew the whim?—That people could not read their title clearTo reverence till their own true names, made dimBy daily mouthing, pleased to disappear,Replaced by brand-new bright ones: Arouet,For instance, grew Voltaire; Desforges—Malcrais.XCIX"Demoiselle Malcrais de la Vigne"—becauseThe family possessed at BrederacA vineyard,—few grapes, many hips-and-haws,—Still a nice Breton name. As breast and backOf this vivacious beauty gleamed through gauze,So did her sprightly nature nowise lackLustre when draped, the fashionable way,In "Malcrais de la Vigne,"—more short, "Malcrais."COut from Paul's escritoire behold escapeThe hoarded treasure! verse falls thick and fast,Sonnets and songs of every size and shape.The lady ponders on her prize; at lastSelects one which—O angel and yet ape!—Her malice thinks is probably surpassedIn badness by no fellow of the flock,Copies it fair, and "Now for my La Roque!"CISo, to him goes, with the neat manuscript,The soft petitionary letter. "GrantA fledgeling novice that with wing uncliptShe soar her little circuit, habitantOf an old manor; buried in which crypt,How can the youthful châtelaine but pantFor disemprisonment by onead hocAppointed 'Mercury's' Editor, La Roque?"CII'T was an epistle that might move the Turk!More certainly it moved our middle-agedPen-driver drudging at his weary work,Raked the old ashes up and disengagedThe sparks of gallantry which always lurkSomehow in literary breasts, assuagedIn no degree by compliments on style;Are Forty wagging beards worth one girl's smile?CIIIIn trips the lady's poem, takes its placeOf honor in the gratified Gazette,With due acknowledgment of power and grace;Prognostication, too, that higher yetThe Breton Muse will soar: fresh youth, high race.Beauty and wealth have amicably metThat Demoiselle Malcrais may fill the chairLeft vacant by the loss of Deshoulières.CIV"There!" cried the lively lady. "Who was right—You in the dumps, or I the merry maidWho know a trick or two can baffle spiteTenfold the force of this old fool's? AfraidOf Editor La Roque? But come! next flightShall outsoar—Deshoulières alone? My blade,Sappho herself shall you confess outstript!Quick, Paul, another dose of manuscript!"CVAnd so, once well a-foot, advanced the game:More and more verses, corresponding gushOn gush of praise, till everywhere acclaimRose to the pitch of uproar. "Sappho? Tush!Sure 'Malcrais on her Parrot' puts to shameDeshoulières' pastorals, clay not worth a rushBeside this find of treasure, gold in crock,Unearthed in Brittany,—nay, ask La Roque!"CVISuch was the Paris tribute. "Yes," you sneer,"Ninnies stock Noodledom, but folk more sageResist contagious folly, never fear!"Do they? Permit me to detach one pageFrom the huge Album which from far and nearPoetic praises blackened in a rageOf rapture! and that page shall be—who staresConfounded now, I ask you?—just Voltaire's!CVIIAy, sharpest shrewdest steel that ever stabbedTo death Imposture through the armor-joints!How did it happen that gross Humbug grabbedThy weapons, gouged thine eyes out? Fate appointsThat pride shall have a fall, or I had blabbedHardly that Humbug, whom thy soul aroints,Could thus cross-buttock thee caught unawares,And dismalest of tumbles proved—Voltaire's!CVIIISee his epistle extant yet, wherewith"Henri" in verse and "Charles" in prose he sentTo do her suit and service! Here 's the pithOf half a dozen stanzas—stones which wentTo build that simulated monolith—Sham love in due degree with homage blentAs sham—which in the vast of volumes scaresThe traveller still: "That stucco-heap—Voltaire's?"CIX"O thou, whose clarion-voice has overflownThe wilds to startle Paris that 's one ear!Thou who such strange capacity hast shownFor joining all that 's grand with all that 's dear,Knowledge with power to please—Deshoulières grownLearned as Dacier in thy person! mereWeak fruit of idle hours, these crabs of mineI dare lay at thy feet, O Muse divine!CX"Charles was my task-work only; Henri trodMy hero erst, and now, my heroine—sheShall be thyself! True—is it true, great God!Certainly love henceforward must not be!Yet all the crowd of Fine Arts fail—how odd!—Tried turn by turn, to fill a void in me!There 's no replacing love with these, alas!Yet all I can I do to prove no ass.CXI"I labor to amuse my freedom; butShould any sweet young creature slavery preach,And—borrowing thy vivacious charm, the slut!—Make me, in thy engaging words, a speech,Soon should I see myself in prison shutWith all imaginable pleasure." ReachThe washhand-basin for admirers! There 'sA stomach-moving tribute—and Voltaire's!CXIISuppose it a fantastic billet-doux,Adulatory flourish, not worth frown!What say you to the Fathers of Trévoux?These in their Dictionary have her downUnder the heading "Author:" "Malcrais, too,Is 'Author' of much verse that claims renown."While Jean-Baptiste Rousseau ... but why proceed?Enough of this—something too much, indeed!CXIIIAt last La Roque, unwilling to be leftBehindhand in the rivalry, broke boundsOf figurative passion hilt and heft,Plunged his huge downright love through what surroundsThe literary female bosom; reftAway its veil of coy reserve with "Zounds!I love thee, Breton Beauty! All 's no use!Body and soul I love,—the big word 's loose!"CXIVHe 's greatest now and to de-struc-ti-onNearest.Attend the solemn word I quote,O Paul!There 's no pause at per-fec-ti-on.Thus knolls thy knell the Doctor's bronzèd throat!Greatness a period hath, no sta-ti-on!Better and truer verse none ever wrote(Despite the antique outstretcheda-i-on)Than thou, revered and magisterial Donne!CXVFlat on his face, La Roque, and—pressed to heartHis dexter hand—Voltaire with bended knee!Paul sat and sucked-in triumph; just apartLeaned over him his sister. "Well?" smirks he,And "Well?" she answers, smiling—woman's artTo let a man's own mouth, not hers, decreeWhat shall be next move which decides the game:Success? She said so. Failure? His the blame.CXVI"Well!" this time forth affirmatively comesWith smack of lip, and long-drawn sigh through teethClose clenched o'er satisfaction, as the gumsWere tickled by a sweetmeat teased beneathPalate by lubricating tongue: "Well! crumbsOf comfort these, undoubtedly! no deathLikely from famine at Fame's feast! 't is clearI may put claim in for my pittance, Dear!CXVII"La Roque, Voltaire, my lovers? Then disguiseHas served its turn, grows idle; let it drop!I shall to Paris, flaunt there in men's eyesMy proper manly garb and mount a-topThe pedestal that waits me, take the prizeAwarded Hercules. He threw a sopTo Cerberus who let him pass, you know,Then, following, licked his heels: exactly so!CXVIII"I like the prospect—their astonishment,Confusion: wounded vanity, no doubt,Mixed motives; how I see the brows quick bent!'What, sir, yourself, none other, brought aboutThis change of estimation? Phœbus sentHis shafts as from Diana?' Critic poutTurns courtier smile: 'Lo, him we took for her!Pleasant mistake! You bear no malice, sir?'CXIX"Eh, my Diana?" But Diana keptSmilingly silent with fixed needle-sharpMuch-meaning eyes that seemed to interceptPaul's very thoughts ere they had time to warpFrom earnest into sport the words they leaptTo life with—changed as when maltreated harpRenders in tinkle what some player-prigMeans for a grave tune though it proves a jig.CXX"What, Paul, and are my pains thus thrown away,My lessons end in loss?" at length fall slowThe pitying syllables, her lips allayThe satire of by keeping in full flow,Above their coral reef, bright smiles at play:"Can it be, Paul thus fails to rightly knowAnd altogether estimate applauseAs just so many asinine hee-haws?CXXI"I thought to show you" ... "Show me," Paul inbroke,"My poetry is rubbish, and the worldThat rings with my renown a sorry joke!What fairer test of worth than that, form furled,I entered the arena? Yet you croakJust as if Phœbé and not Phœbus hurledThe dart and struck the Python! What, he crawlsHumbly in dust before your feet, not Paul's?CXXII"Nay, 't is no laughing matter though absurdIf there 's an end of honesty on earth!La Roque sends letters, lying every word!Voltaire makes verse, and of himself makes mirthTo the remotest age! Rousseau's the thirdWho, driven to despair amid such dearthOf people that want praising, finds no oneMore fit to praise than Paul the simpleton!CXXIII"Somebody says—if a man writes at allIt is to show the writer's kith and kinHe was unjustly thought a natural;And truly, sister, I have yet to winYour favorable word, it seems, for PaulWhose poetry you count not worth a pinThough well enough esteemed by these Voltaires,Rousseaus and such-like: let them quack, who cares?"CXXIV"—To Paris with you, Paul! Not one word's wasteFurther: my scrupulosity was vain!Go triumph! Be my foolish fears effacedFrom memory's record! Go, to come againWith glory crowned,—by sister re-embraced,Cured of that strange delusion of her brainWhich led her to suspect that Paris gloatsOn male limbs mostly when in petticoats!"CXXVSo laughed her last word, with the little touchOf malice proper to the outraged prideOf any artist in a work too muchShorn of its merits. "By all means, be triedThe opposite procedure! Cast your crutchAway, no longer crippled, nor divideThe credit of your march to the World's FairWith sister Cherry-cheeks who helped you there!"CXXVICrippled, forsooth! What courser sprightlier prancedParis-ward than did Paul? Nay, dreams lent wings:He flew, or seemed to fly, by dreams entranced.Dreams? wide-awake realities: no thingsDreamed merely were the missives that advancedThe claim of Malcrais to consort with kingsCrowned by Apollo—not to say with queensCinctured by Venus for Idalian scenes.CXXVIISoon he arrives, forthwith is found beforeThe outer gate of glory. Bold tic-tocAnnounces there's a giant at the door."Ay, sir, here dwells the Chevalier La Roque.""Lackey! Malcrais—mind, no word less nor more!—Desires his presence. I've unearthed the brock:Now, to transfix him!" There stands Paul erect,Inched out his uttermost, for more effect.CXXVIIIA bustling entrance: "Idol of my flame!Can it be that my heart attains at lastIts longing? that you stand, the very sameAs in my visions?... Ha! hey, how?" aghastStops short the rapture. "Oh, my boy's to blame!You merely are the messenger! Too fastMy fancy rushed to a conclusion. Pooh!Well, sir, the lady's substitute is—who?"CXXIXThen Paul's smirk grows inordinate. "Shake hands!Friendship not love awaits you, master mine,Though nor Malcrais nor any mistress standsTo meet your ardor! So, you don't divineWho wrote the verses wherewith ring the land'sWhole length and breadth? Just he whereof no lineHad ever leave to blot your Journal—eh?Paul Desforges Maillard—otherwise Malcrais!"CXXXAnd there the two stood, stare confronting smirk,A while uncertain which should yield thepas.In vain the Chevalier beat brain for quirkTo help in this conjuncture; at length, "Bah!Boh! Since I've made myself a fool, why shirkThe punishment of folly? Ha, ha, ha,Let me return your handshake!" Comic sockFor tragic buskin prompt thus changed La Roque.CXXXI"I'm nobody—a wren-like journalist;You've flown at higher game and winged your bird,The golden eagle! That's the grand acquist!Voltaire's sly Muse, the tiger-cat, has purred.Prettily round your feet; but if she missedPriority of stroking, soon were stirredThe dormant spitfire. To Voltaire! away,Paul Desforges Maillard, otherwise Malcrais!"CXXXIIWhereupon, arm in arm, and head in air,The two begin their journey. Need I say,La Roque had felt the talon of Voltaire,Had a long-standing little debt to pay,And pounced, you may depend, on such a rareOccasion for its due discharge? So, gayAnd grenadier-like, marching to assault,They reach the enemy's abode, there halt.CXXXIII"I'll be announcer!" quoth La Roque: "I know,Better than you, perhaps, my Breton bard,How to procure an audience! He's not slowTo smell a rat, this scamp Voltaire! DiscardThe petticoats too soon,—you'll never showYourhaut-de-chaussesand all they've made or marredIn your true person. Here's his servant. Pray,Will the great man see Demoiselle Malcrais?"CXXXIVNow, the great man was also, no whit less,The man of self-respect,—more great man he!And bowed to social usage, dressed the dress,And decorated to the fit degreeHis person; 't was enough to bear the stressOf battle in the field, without, when freeFrom outside foes, inviting friends' attackBy—sword in hand? No,—ill-made coat on back.CXXXVAnd, since the announcement of his visitorSurprised him at his toilet,—never glassHad such solicitation! "Black, now—orBrown be the killing wig to wear? Alas,Where's the rouge gone, this cheek were better forA tender touch of? Melted to a mass,All my pomatum! There 's at all eventsA devil—for he's got among my scents!"CXXXVISo, "barbered ten times o'er," as AntonyPaced to his Cleopatra, did at lastVoltaire proceed to the fair presence: highIn color, proud in port, as if a blastOf trumpet bade the world "Take note! draws nighTo Beauty, Power! Behold the Iconoclast,The Poet, the Philosopher, the RodOf iron for imposture! Ah my God!"CXXXVIIFor there stands smirking Paul, and—what lights fierceThe situation as with sulphur flash—There grinning stands La Roque! No carte-and-tierceObserves the grinning fencer, but, full dashFrom breast to shoulder-blade, the thrusts transpierceThat armor against which so idly clashThe swords of priests and pedants! Victors there,Two smirk and grin who have befooled—Voltaire!CXXXVIIIA moment's horror; then quick turn-aboutOn high-heeled shoe,—flurry of ruffles, flounceOf wig-ties and of coat-tails,—and so outOf door banged wrathfully behind, goes—bounce—Voltaire in tragic exit! vows, no doubt,Vengeance upon the couple. Did he trounceEither, in point of fact? His anger's flashsubsided if a culprit craved his cash.

LXX

Till he was thirty years of age, the veinPoetic yielded rhyme by drops and spirts:In verses of society had lainHis talent chiefly; but the Muse assertsPrivilege most by treating with disdainEpics the bard mouths out, or odes he blurtsSpasmodically forth. Have people timeAnd patience nowadays for thought in rhyme?

Till he was thirty years of age, the vein

Poetic yielded rhyme by drops and spirts:

In verses of society had lain

His talent chiefly; but the Muse asserts

Privilege most by treating with disdain

Epics the bard mouths out, or odes he blurts

Spasmodically forth. Have people time

And patience nowadays for thought in rhyme?

LXXI

So, his achievements were the quatrain's inchOf homage, or at most the sonnet's ellOf admiration: welded lines with clinchOf ending word and word, to every belleIn Croisic's bounds; these, brisk as any finch,He twittered till his fame had reached as wellGuérande as Batz; but there fame stopped, for—curseOn fortune—outside lay the universe!

So, his achievements were the quatrain's inch

Of homage, or at most the sonnet's ell

Of admiration: welded lines with clinch

Of ending word and word, to every belle

In Croisic's bounds; these, brisk as any finch,

He twittered till his fame had reached as well

Guérande as Batz; but there fame stopped, for—curse

On fortune—outside lay the universe!

LXXII

That 's Paris. Well,—why not break bounds, and sendSong onward till it echo at the gatesOf Paris whither all ambitions tend,And end too, seeing that success there satesThe soul which hungers most for fame? Why spendA minute in deciding, while, by Fate'sDecree, there happens to be just the prizeProposed there, suiting souls that poetize?

That 's Paris. Well,—why not break bounds, and send

Song onward till it echo at the gates

Of Paris whither all ambitions tend,

And end too, seeing that success there sates

The soul which hungers most for fame? Why spend

A minute in deciding, while, by Fate's

Decree, there happens to be just the prize

Proposed there, suiting souls that poetize?

LXXIII

A prize indeed, the Academy's own selfProposes to what bard shall best inditeA piece describing how, through shoal and shelf,The Art of Navigation; steered aright,Has, in our last king's reign,—the lucky elf,—Reached, one may say, Perfection's haven quite,And there cast anchor. At a glance one seesThe subject's crowd of capabilities!

A prize indeed, the Academy's own self

Proposes to what bard shall best indite

A piece describing how, through shoal and shelf,

The Art of Navigation; steered aright,

Has, in our last king's reign,—the lucky elf,—

Reached, one may say, Perfection's haven quite,

And there cast anchor. At a glance one sees

The subject's crowd of capabilities!

LXXIV

Neptune and Amphitrité! Thetis, whoIs either Tethys or as good—both tag!Triton can shove along a vessel too:It 's Virgil! Then the winds that blow or lag,—De Maille, Vendôme, Vermandois! Toulouse blewLongest, we reckon: he must puff the flagTo fullest outflare; while our lacking nymphBe Anne of Austria, Regent o'er the lymph!

Neptune and Amphitrité! Thetis, who

Is either Tethys or as good—both tag!

Triton can shove along a vessel too:

It 's Virgil! Then the winds that blow or lag,—

De Maille, Vendôme, Vermandois! Toulouse blew

Longest, we reckon: he must puff the flag

To fullest outflare; while our lacking nymph

Be Anne of Austria, Regent o'er the lymph!

LXXV

Promised, performed! Sinceirritabilis gensHolds of the feverish impotence that strivesTo stay an itch by prompt resource to pen'sScratching itself on paper; placid lives,Leisurely works mark thedivinior mens:Bees brood above the honey in their hives;Gnats are the busy bustlers. Splash and scrawl,—Completed lay thy piece, swift penman Paul!

Promised, performed! Sinceirritabilis gens

Holds of the feverish impotence that strives

To stay an itch by prompt resource to pen's

Scratching itself on paper; placid lives,

Leisurely works mark thedivinior mens:

Bees brood above the honey in their hives;

Gnats are the busy bustlers. Splash and scrawl,—

Completed lay thy piece, swift penman Paul!

LXXVI

To Paris with the product! This dispatched,One had to wait the Forty's slow and sureVerdict, as best one might. Our penman scratchedAway perforce the itch that knows no cureBut daily paper-friction: more than matchedHis first feat by a second—tribute pureAnd heartfelt to the Forty when their voiceShould peal with one accord "Be Paul our choice!"

To Paris with the product! This dispatched,

One had to wait the Forty's slow and sure

Verdict, as best one might. Our penman scratched

Away perforce the itch that knows no cure

But daily paper-friction: more than matched

His first feat by a second—tribute pure

And heartfelt to the Forty when their voice

Should peal with one accord "Be Paul our choice!"

LXXVII

Scratch, scratch went much laudation of that saneAnd sound Tribunal, delegates augustOf Phœbus and the Muses' sacred train—Whom every poetaster tries to thrustFrom where, high-throned, they dominate the Seine:Fruitless endeavor,—fail it shall and must!Whereof in witness have not one and allThe Forty voices pealed "Our choice be Paul"?

Scratch, scratch went much laudation of that sane

And sound Tribunal, delegates august

Of Phœbus and the Muses' sacred train—

Whom every poetaster tries to thrust

From where, high-throned, they dominate the Seine:

Fruitless endeavor,—fail it shall and must!

Whereof in witness have not one and all

The Forty voices pealed "Our choice be Paul"?

LXXVIII

Thus Paul discounted his applause. AlackFor human expectation! Scarcely inkWas dry when, lo, the perfect piece came backRejected, shamed! Some other poet's clink"Thetis and Tethys" had seduced the packOf pedants to declare perfection's pinkA singularly poor production. "Whew!The Forty are stark fools, I always knew!"

Thus Paul discounted his applause. Alack

For human expectation! Scarcely ink

Was dry when, lo, the perfect piece came back

Rejected, shamed! Some other poet's clink

"Thetis and Tethys" had seduced the pack

Of pedants to declare perfection's pink

A singularly poor production. "Whew!

The Forty are stark fools, I always knew!"

LXXIX

First fury over (for Paul's race—to wit,Brain-vibrios—wriggle clear of protoplasmInto minute life that 's one fury-fit),"These fools shall find a bard's enthusiasmComports with what should counterbalance it—Some knowledge of the world! No doubt, orgasmEffects the birth of verse which, born, demandsProsaic ministration, swaddling-bands!

First fury over (for Paul's race—to wit,

Brain-vibrios—wriggle clear of protoplasm

Into minute life that 's one fury-fit),

"These fools shall find a bard's enthusiasm

Comports with what should counterbalance it—

Some knowledge of the world! No doubt, orgasm

Effects the birth of verse which, born, demands

Prosaic ministration, swaddling-bands!

LXXX

"Verse must be cared for at this early stage,Handled, nay dandled even. I should playTheir game indeed if, till it grew of age,I meekly let these dotards frown awayMy bantling from the rightful heritageOf smiles and kisses! Let the public sayIf it be worthy praises or rebukes,My poem, from these Forty old perukes!"

"Verse must be cared for at this early stage,

Handled, nay dandled even. I should play

Their game indeed if, till it grew of age,

I meekly let these dotards frown away

My bantling from the rightful heritage

Of smiles and kisses! Let the public say

If it be worthy praises or rebukes,

My poem, from these Forty old perukes!"

LXXXI

So, by a friend, who boasts himself in graceWith no less than the Chevalier La Roque,—Eminent in those days for pride of place,Seeing he had it in his power to blockThe way or smooth the road to all the raceOf literators trudging up to knockAt Fame's exalted temple-door—for why?He edited the Paris "Mercury:"—

So, by a friend, who boasts himself in grace

With no less than the Chevalier La Roque,—

Eminent in those days for pride of place,

Seeing he had it in his power to block

The way or smooth the road to all the race

Of literators trudging up to knock

At Fame's exalted temple-door—for why?

He edited the Paris "Mercury:"—

LXXXII

By this friend's help the Chevalier receivesPaul's poem, prefaced by the due appealTo Cæsar from the Jews. As duly heavesA sigh the Chevalier, about to dealWith case so customary—turns the leaves,Finds nothing there to borrow, beg, or steal—Then brightens up the critic's brow deep-lined."The thing may be so cleverly declined!"

By this friend's help the Chevalier receives

Paul's poem, prefaced by the due appeal

To Cæsar from the Jews. As duly heaves

A sigh the Chevalier, about to deal

With case so customary—turns the leaves,

Finds nothing there to borrow, beg, or steal—

Then brightens up the critic's brow deep-lined.

"The thing may be so cleverly declined!"

LXXXIII

Down to desk, out with paper, up with quill,Dip and indite! "Sir, gratitude immenseFor this true draught from the Pierian rill!Our Academic clodpoles must be denseIndeed to stand unirrigated still.No less, we critics dare not give offenceTo grandees like the Forty: while we mock,We grin and bear. So, here 's your piece! La Roque."

Down to desk, out with paper, up with quill,

Dip and indite! "Sir, gratitude immense

For this true draught from the Pierian rill!

Our Academic clodpoles must be dense

Indeed to stand unirrigated still.

No less, we critics dare not give offence

To grandees like the Forty: while we mock,

We grin and bear. So, here 's your piece! La Roque."

LXXXIV

"There now!" cries Paul: "the fellow can't avoidConfessing that my piece deserves the palm;And yet he dares not grant me space enjoyedBy every scribbler he permits embalmHis crambo in the Journal's corner! CloyedWith stuff like theirs, no wonder if a qualmBe caused by verse like mine: though that 's no causeFor his defrauding me of just applause.

"There now!" cries Paul: "the fellow can't avoid

Confessing that my piece deserves the palm;

And yet he dares not grant me space enjoyed

By every scribbler he permits embalm

His crambo in the Journal's corner! Cloyed

With stuff like theirs, no wonder if a qualm

Be caused by verse like mine: though that 's no cause

For his defrauding me of just applause.

LXXXV

"Aha, he fears the Forty, this poltroon?First let him fearme!Change smooth speech to rough!I 'll speak my mind out, show the fellow soonWho is the foe to dread: insist enoughOn my own merits till, as clear as noon,He sees I am no man to take rebuffAs patiently as scribblers may and must!Quick to the onslaught, out sword, cut and thrust!"

"Aha, he fears the Forty, this poltroon?

First let him fearme!Change smooth speech to rough!

I 'll speak my mind out, show the fellow soon

Who is the foe to dread: insist enough

On my own merits till, as clear as noon,

He sees I am no man to take rebuff

As patiently as scribblers may and must!

Quick to the onslaught, out sword, cut and thrust!"

LXXXVI

And thereupon a fierce epistle flingsIts challenge in the critic's face. Alack!Our bard mistakes his man! The gauntlet ringsOn brazen visor proof against attack.Prompt from his editorial throne up springsThe insulted magnate, and his mace falls, thwack,On Paul's devoted brainpan,—quite awayFrom common courtesies of fencing-play!

And thereupon a fierce epistle flings

Its challenge in the critic's face. Alack!

Our bard mistakes his man! The gauntlet rings

On brazen visor proof against attack.

Prompt from his editorial throne up springs

The insulted magnate, and his mace falls, thwack,

On Paul's devoted brainpan,—quite away

From common courtesies of fencing-play!

LXXXVII

"Sir, will you have the truth? This piece of yoursIs simply execrable past belief.I shrank from saying so; but, since naught curesConceit but truth, truth 's at your service! Brief,Just so long as 'The Mercury' endures,So long are you excluded by its ChiefFrom corner, nay, from cranny! Play the cockO' the roost, henceforth, at Croisic!" wrote La Roque.

"Sir, will you have the truth? This piece of yours

Is simply execrable past belief.

I shrank from saying so; but, since naught cures

Conceit but truth, truth 's at your service! Brief,

Just so long as 'The Mercury' endures,

So long are you excluded by its Chief

From corner, nay, from cranny! Play the cock

O' the roost, henceforth, at Croisic!" wrote La Roque.

LXXXVIII

Paul yellowed, whitened, as his wrath from redWaxed incandescent. Now, this man of rhymeWas merely foolish, faulty in the headNot heart of him: conceit 's a venial crime."Oh by no means malicious!" cousins said:Fussily feeble,—harmless all the time,Piddling at so-called satire—well-advised,He held in most awe whom he satirized.

Paul yellowed, whitened, as his wrath from red

Waxed incandescent. Now, this man of rhyme

Was merely foolish, faulty in the head

Not heart of him: conceit 's a venial crime.

"Oh by no means malicious!" cousins said:

Fussily feeble,—harmless all the time,

Piddling at so-called satire—well-advised,

He held in most awe whom he satirized.

LXXXIX

Accordingly his kith and kin—removedFrom emulation of the poet's giftBy power and will—these rather liked, nay, lovedThe man who gave his family a liftOut of the Croisic level; disapprovedSatire so trenchant." Thus our poet sniffedHome-incense, though too churlish to unlock"The Mercury's" box of ointment was La Roque.

Accordingly his kith and kin—removed

From emulation of the poet's gift

By power and will—these rather liked, nay, loved

The man who gave his family a lift

Out of the Croisic level; disapproved

Satire so trenchant." Thus our poet sniffed

Home-incense, though too churlish to unlock

"The Mercury's" box of ointment was La Roque.

But when Paul's visage grew from red to white,And from his lips a sort of mumbling fellOf who was to be kicked,—"And serve him right!"A gay voice interposed, "Did kicking wellAnswer the purpose! Only—if I mightSuggest as much—a far more potent spellLies in another kind of treatment. Oh,Women are ready at resource, you know!

But when Paul's visage grew from red to white,

And from his lips a sort of mumbling fell

Of who was to be kicked,—"And serve him right!"

A gay voice interposed, "Did kicking well

Answer the purpose! Only—if I might

Suggest as much—a far more potent spell

Lies in another kind of treatment. Oh,

Women are ready at resource, you know!

XCI

"Talent should minister to genius! good:The proper and superior smile returns.Hear me with patience! Have you understoodThe only method whereby genius earnsFit guerdon nowadays? In knightly moodYou entered lists with visor up; one learnsToo late that, had you mounted Roland's crest,'Room!' they had roared—La Roque with all the rest!

"Talent should minister to genius! good:

The proper and superior smile returns.

Hear me with patience! Have you understood

The only method whereby genius earns

Fit guerdon nowadays? In knightly mood

You entered lists with visor up; one learns

Too late that, had you mounted Roland's crest,

'Room!' they had roared—La Roque with all the rest!

XCII

"Why did you first of all transmit your pieceTo those same priggish Forty unpreparedWhether to rank you with the swans or geeseBy friendly intervention? If they daredCount you a cackler,—wonders never cease!I think it still more wondrous that you baredYour brow (my earlier image) as if praiseWere gained by simple fighting nowadays!

"Why did you first of all transmit your piece

To those same priggish Forty unprepared

Whether to rank you with the swans or geese

By friendly intervention? If they dared

Count you a cackler,—wonders never cease!

I think it still more wondrous that you bared

Your brow (my earlier image) as if praise

Were gained by simple fighting nowadays!

XCIII

"Your next step showed a touch of the true meansWhereby desert is crowned: not force but wileCame to the rescue. 'Get behind the scenes!'Your friend advised: he writes, sets forth your styleAnd title, to such purpose intervenesThat you get velvet-compliment three-pile;And, though 'The Mercury' said 'nay,' nor stockNor stone did his refusal prove La Roque.

"Your next step showed a touch of the true means

Whereby desert is crowned: not force but wile

Came to the rescue. 'Get behind the scenes!'

Your friend advised: he writes, sets forth your style

And title, to such purpose intervenes

That you get velvet-compliment three-pile;

And, though 'The Mercury' said 'nay,' nor stock

Nor stone did his refusal prove La Roque.

XCIV

"Why must you needs revert to the high hand,Imperative procedure—what you call'Taking on merit your exclusive stand'?Stand, with a vengeance! Soon you went to wall.You and your merit! Only fools commandWhen folks are free to disobey them, Paul!You 've learnt your lesson, found out what 's o'clock,By this uncivil answer of La Roque.

"Why must you needs revert to the high hand,

Imperative procedure—what you call

'Taking on merit your exclusive stand'?

Stand, with a vengeance! Soon you went to wall.

You and your merit! Only fools command

When folks are free to disobey them, Paul!

You 've learnt your lesson, found out what 's o'clock,

By this uncivil answer of La Roque.

XCV

"Now let me counsel! Lay this piece on shelf—Masterpiece though it be! From out your deskHand me some lighter sample, verse the elfCupid inspired you with, no god grotesquePresiding o'er the Navy! I myselfHand-write what 's legible yet picturesque;I 'll copy fair and femininely frockYour poem masculine that courts La Roque!

"Now let me counsel! Lay this piece on shelf

—Masterpiece though it be! From out your desk

Hand me some lighter sample, verse the elf

Cupid inspired you with, no god grotesque

Presiding o'er the Navy! I myself

Hand-write what 's legible yet picturesque;

I 'll copy fair and femininely frock

Your poem masculine that courts La Roque!

XCVI

"Deidamia he—Achilles thou!Ha, ha, these ancient stories come so apt!My sex, my youth, my rank I next avowIn a neat prayer for kind perusal. SappedI see the walls which stand so stoutly now!I see the toils about the game entrappedBy honest cunning! Chains of lady's-smock,Not thorn and thistle, tether fast La Roque!"

"Deidamia he—Achilles thou!

Ha, ha, these ancient stories come so apt!

My sex, my youth, my rank I next avow

In a neat prayer for kind perusal. Sapped

I see the walls which stand so stoutly now!

I see the toils about the game entrapped

By honest cunning! Chains of lady's-smock,

Not thorn and thistle, tether fast La Roque!"

XCVII

Now, who might be the speaker sweet and archThat laughed above Paul's shoulder as it heavedWith the indignant heart?—bade steal a marchAnd not continue charging? Who conceivedThis plan which set our Paul, like pea you parchOn fire-shovel, skipping, of a load relieved,From arm-chair moodiness to escritoireSacred to Phœbus and the tuneful choir?

Now, who might be the speaker sweet and arch

That laughed above Paul's shoulder as it heaved

With the indignant heart?—bade steal a march

And not continue charging? Who conceived

This plan which set our Paul, like pea you parch

On fire-shovel, skipping, of a load relieved,

From arm-chair moodiness to escritoire

Sacred to Phœbus and the tuneful choir?

XCVIII

Who but Paul's sister! named of course like him"Desforges;" but, mark you, in those days a queerCustom obtained,—who knows whence grew the whim?—That people could not read their title clearTo reverence till their own true names, made dimBy daily mouthing, pleased to disappear,Replaced by brand-new bright ones: Arouet,For instance, grew Voltaire; Desforges—Malcrais.

Who but Paul's sister! named of course like him

"Desforges;" but, mark you, in those days a queer

Custom obtained,—who knows whence grew the whim?—

That people could not read their title clear

To reverence till their own true names, made dim

By daily mouthing, pleased to disappear,

Replaced by brand-new bright ones: Arouet,

For instance, grew Voltaire; Desforges—Malcrais.

XCIX

"Demoiselle Malcrais de la Vigne"—becauseThe family possessed at BrederacA vineyard,—few grapes, many hips-and-haws,—Still a nice Breton name. As breast and backOf this vivacious beauty gleamed through gauze,So did her sprightly nature nowise lackLustre when draped, the fashionable way,In "Malcrais de la Vigne,"—more short, "Malcrais."

"Demoiselle Malcrais de la Vigne"—because

The family possessed at Brederac

A vineyard,—few grapes, many hips-and-haws,—

Still a nice Breton name. As breast and back

Of this vivacious beauty gleamed through gauze,

So did her sprightly nature nowise lack

Lustre when draped, the fashionable way,

In "Malcrais de la Vigne,"—more short, "Malcrais."

Out from Paul's escritoire behold escapeThe hoarded treasure! verse falls thick and fast,Sonnets and songs of every size and shape.The lady ponders on her prize; at lastSelects one which—O angel and yet ape!—Her malice thinks is probably surpassedIn badness by no fellow of the flock,Copies it fair, and "Now for my La Roque!"

Out from Paul's escritoire behold escape

The hoarded treasure! verse falls thick and fast,

Sonnets and songs of every size and shape.

The lady ponders on her prize; at last

Selects one which—O angel and yet ape!—

Her malice thinks is probably surpassed

In badness by no fellow of the flock,

Copies it fair, and "Now for my La Roque!"

So, to him goes, with the neat manuscript,The soft petitionary letter. "GrantA fledgeling novice that with wing uncliptShe soar her little circuit, habitantOf an old manor; buried in which crypt,How can the youthful châtelaine but pantFor disemprisonment by onead hocAppointed 'Mercury's' Editor, La Roque?"

So, to him goes, with the neat manuscript,

The soft petitionary letter. "Grant

A fledgeling novice that with wing unclipt

She soar her little circuit, habitant

Of an old manor; buried in which crypt,

How can the youthful châtelaine but pant

For disemprisonment by onead hoc

Appointed 'Mercury's' Editor, La Roque?"

CII

'T was an epistle that might move the Turk!More certainly it moved our middle-agedPen-driver drudging at his weary work,Raked the old ashes up and disengagedThe sparks of gallantry which always lurkSomehow in literary breasts, assuagedIn no degree by compliments on style;Are Forty wagging beards worth one girl's smile?

'T was an epistle that might move the Turk!

More certainly it moved our middle-aged

Pen-driver drudging at his weary work,

Raked the old ashes up and disengaged

The sparks of gallantry which always lurk

Somehow in literary breasts, assuaged

In no degree by compliments on style;

Are Forty wagging beards worth one girl's smile?

CIII

In trips the lady's poem, takes its placeOf honor in the gratified Gazette,With due acknowledgment of power and grace;Prognostication, too, that higher yetThe Breton Muse will soar: fresh youth, high race.Beauty and wealth have amicably metThat Demoiselle Malcrais may fill the chairLeft vacant by the loss of Deshoulières.

In trips the lady's poem, takes its place

Of honor in the gratified Gazette,

With due acknowledgment of power and grace;

Prognostication, too, that higher yet

The Breton Muse will soar: fresh youth, high race.

Beauty and wealth have amicably met

That Demoiselle Malcrais may fill the chair

Left vacant by the loss of Deshoulières.

CIV

"There!" cried the lively lady. "Who was right—You in the dumps, or I the merry maidWho know a trick or two can baffle spiteTenfold the force of this old fool's? AfraidOf Editor La Roque? But come! next flightShall outsoar—Deshoulières alone? My blade,Sappho herself shall you confess outstript!Quick, Paul, another dose of manuscript!"

"There!" cried the lively lady. "Who was right—

You in the dumps, or I the merry maid

Who know a trick or two can baffle spite

Tenfold the force of this old fool's? Afraid

Of Editor La Roque? But come! next flight

Shall outsoar—Deshoulières alone? My blade,

Sappho herself shall you confess outstript!

Quick, Paul, another dose of manuscript!"

And so, once well a-foot, advanced the game:More and more verses, corresponding gushOn gush of praise, till everywhere acclaimRose to the pitch of uproar. "Sappho? Tush!Sure 'Malcrais on her Parrot' puts to shameDeshoulières' pastorals, clay not worth a rushBeside this find of treasure, gold in crock,Unearthed in Brittany,—nay, ask La Roque!"

And so, once well a-foot, advanced the game:

More and more verses, corresponding gush

On gush of praise, till everywhere acclaim

Rose to the pitch of uproar. "Sappho? Tush!

Sure 'Malcrais on her Parrot' puts to shame

Deshoulières' pastorals, clay not worth a rush

Beside this find of treasure, gold in crock,

Unearthed in Brittany,—nay, ask La Roque!"

CVI

Such was the Paris tribute. "Yes," you sneer,"Ninnies stock Noodledom, but folk more sageResist contagious folly, never fear!"Do they? Permit me to detach one pageFrom the huge Album which from far and nearPoetic praises blackened in a rageOf rapture! and that page shall be—who staresConfounded now, I ask you?—just Voltaire's!

Such was the Paris tribute. "Yes," you sneer,

"Ninnies stock Noodledom, but folk more sage

Resist contagious folly, never fear!"

Do they? Permit me to detach one page

From the huge Album which from far and near

Poetic praises blackened in a rage

Of rapture! and that page shall be—who stares

Confounded now, I ask you?—just Voltaire's!

CVII

Ay, sharpest shrewdest steel that ever stabbedTo death Imposture through the armor-joints!How did it happen that gross Humbug grabbedThy weapons, gouged thine eyes out? Fate appointsThat pride shall have a fall, or I had blabbedHardly that Humbug, whom thy soul aroints,Could thus cross-buttock thee caught unawares,And dismalest of tumbles proved—Voltaire's!

Ay, sharpest shrewdest steel that ever stabbed

To death Imposture through the armor-joints!

How did it happen that gross Humbug grabbed

Thy weapons, gouged thine eyes out? Fate appoints

That pride shall have a fall, or I had blabbed

Hardly that Humbug, whom thy soul aroints,

Could thus cross-buttock thee caught unawares,

And dismalest of tumbles proved—Voltaire's!

CVIII

See his epistle extant yet, wherewith"Henri" in verse and "Charles" in prose he sentTo do her suit and service! Here 's the pithOf half a dozen stanzas—stones which wentTo build that simulated monolith—Sham love in due degree with homage blentAs sham—which in the vast of volumes scaresThe traveller still: "That stucco-heap—Voltaire's?"

See his epistle extant yet, wherewith

"Henri" in verse and "Charles" in prose he sent

To do her suit and service! Here 's the pith

Of half a dozen stanzas—stones which went

To build that simulated monolith—

Sham love in due degree with homage blent

As sham—which in the vast of volumes scares

The traveller still: "That stucco-heap—Voltaire's?"

CIX

"O thou, whose clarion-voice has overflownThe wilds to startle Paris that 's one ear!Thou who such strange capacity hast shownFor joining all that 's grand with all that 's dear,Knowledge with power to please—Deshoulières grownLearned as Dacier in thy person! mereWeak fruit of idle hours, these crabs of mineI dare lay at thy feet, O Muse divine!

"O thou, whose clarion-voice has overflown

The wilds to startle Paris that 's one ear!

Thou who such strange capacity hast shown

For joining all that 's grand with all that 's dear,

Knowledge with power to please—Deshoulières grown

Learned as Dacier in thy person! mere

Weak fruit of idle hours, these crabs of mine

I dare lay at thy feet, O Muse divine!

"Charles was my task-work only; Henri trodMy hero erst, and now, my heroine—sheShall be thyself! True—is it true, great God!Certainly love henceforward must not be!Yet all the crowd of Fine Arts fail—how odd!—Tried turn by turn, to fill a void in me!There 's no replacing love with these, alas!Yet all I can I do to prove no ass.

"Charles was my task-work only; Henri trod

My hero erst, and now, my heroine—she

Shall be thyself! True—is it true, great God!

Certainly love henceforward must not be!

Yet all the crowd of Fine Arts fail—how odd!—

Tried turn by turn, to fill a void in me!

There 's no replacing love with these, alas!

Yet all I can I do to prove no ass.

CXI

"I labor to amuse my freedom; butShould any sweet young creature slavery preach,And—borrowing thy vivacious charm, the slut!—Make me, in thy engaging words, a speech,Soon should I see myself in prison shutWith all imaginable pleasure." ReachThe washhand-basin for admirers! There 'sA stomach-moving tribute—and Voltaire's!

"I labor to amuse my freedom; but

Should any sweet young creature slavery preach,

And—borrowing thy vivacious charm, the slut!—

Make me, in thy engaging words, a speech,

Soon should I see myself in prison shut

With all imaginable pleasure." Reach

The washhand-basin for admirers! There 's

A stomach-moving tribute—and Voltaire's!

CXII

Suppose it a fantastic billet-doux,Adulatory flourish, not worth frown!What say you to the Fathers of Trévoux?These in their Dictionary have her downUnder the heading "Author:" "Malcrais, too,Is 'Author' of much verse that claims renown."While Jean-Baptiste Rousseau ... but why proceed?Enough of this—something too much, indeed!

Suppose it a fantastic billet-doux,

Adulatory flourish, not worth frown!

What say you to the Fathers of Trévoux?

These in their Dictionary have her down

Under the heading "Author:" "Malcrais, too,

Is 'Author' of much verse that claims renown."

While Jean-Baptiste Rousseau ... but why proceed?

Enough of this—something too much, indeed!

CXIII

At last La Roque, unwilling to be leftBehindhand in the rivalry, broke boundsOf figurative passion hilt and heft,Plunged his huge downright love through what surroundsThe literary female bosom; reftAway its veil of coy reserve with "Zounds!I love thee, Breton Beauty! All 's no use!Body and soul I love,—the big word 's loose!"

At last La Roque, unwilling to be left

Behindhand in the rivalry, broke bounds

Of figurative passion hilt and heft,

Plunged his huge downright love through what surrounds

The literary female bosom; reft

Away its veil of coy reserve with "Zounds!

I love thee, Breton Beauty! All 's no use!

Body and soul I love,—the big word 's loose!"

CXIV

He 's greatest now and to de-struc-ti-onNearest.Attend the solemn word I quote,O Paul!There 's no pause at per-fec-ti-on.Thus knolls thy knell the Doctor's bronzèd throat!Greatness a period hath, no sta-ti-on!Better and truer verse none ever wrote(Despite the antique outstretcheda-i-on)Than thou, revered and magisterial Donne!

He 's greatest now and to de-struc-ti-on

Nearest.Attend the solemn word I quote,

O Paul!There 's no pause at per-fec-ti-on.

Thus knolls thy knell the Doctor's bronzèd throat!

Greatness a period hath, no sta-ti-on!

Better and truer verse none ever wrote

(Despite the antique outstretcheda-i-on)

Than thou, revered and magisterial Donne!

CXV

Flat on his face, La Roque, and—pressed to heartHis dexter hand—Voltaire with bended knee!Paul sat and sucked-in triumph; just apartLeaned over him his sister. "Well?" smirks he,And "Well?" she answers, smiling—woman's artTo let a man's own mouth, not hers, decreeWhat shall be next move which decides the game:Success? She said so. Failure? His the blame.

Flat on his face, La Roque, and—pressed to heart

His dexter hand—Voltaire with bended knee!

Paul sat and sucked-in triumph; just apart

Leaned over him his sister. "Well?" smirks he,

And "Well?" she answers, smiling—woman's art

To let a man's own mouth, not hers, decree

What shall be next move which decides the game:

Success? She said so. Failure? His the blame.

CXVI

"Well!" this time forth affirmatively comesWith smack of lip, and long-drawn sigh through teethClose clenched o'er satisfaction, as the gumsWere tickled by a sweetmeat teased beneathPalate by lubricating tongue: "Well! crumbsOf comfort these, undoubtedly! no deathLikely from famine at Fame's feast! 't is clearI may put claim in for my pittance, Dear!

"Well!" this time forth affirmatively comes

With smack of lip, and long-drawn sigh through teeth

Close clenched o'er satisfaction, as the gums

Were tickled by a sweetmeat teased beneath

Palate by lubricating tongue: "Well! crumbs

Of comfort these, undoubtedly! no death

Likely from famine at Fame's feast! 't is clear

I may put claim in for my pittance, Dear!

CXVII

"La Roque, Voltaire, my lovers? Then disguiseHas served its turn, grows idle; let it drop!I shall to Paris, flaunt there in men's eyesMy proper manly garb and mount a-topThe pedestal that waits me, take the prizeAwarded Hercules. He threw a sopTo Cerberus who let him pass, you know,Then, following, licked his heels: exactly so!

"La Roque, Voltaire, my lovers? Then disguise

Has served its turn, grows idle; let it drop!

I shall to Paris, flaunt there in men's eyes

My proper manly garb and mount a-top

The pedestal that waits me, take the prize

Awarded Hercules. He threw a sop

To Cerberus who let him pass, you know,

Then, following, licked his heels: exactly so!

CXVIII

"I like the prospect—their astonishment,Confusion: wounded vanity, no doubt,Mixed motives; how I see the brows quick bent!'What, sir, yourself, none other, brought aboutThis change of estimation? Phœbus sentHis shafts as from Diana?' Critic poutTurns courtier smile: 'Lo, him we took for her!Pleasant mistake! You bear no malice, sir?'

"I like the prospect—their astonishment,

Confusion: wounded vanity, no doubt,

Mixed motives; how I see the brows quick bent!

'What, sir, yourself, none other, brought about

This change of estimation? Phœbus sent

His shafts as from Diana?' Critic pout

Turns courtier smile: 'Lo, him we took for her!

Pleasant mistake! You bear no malice, sir?'

CXIX

"Eh, my Diana?" But Diana keptSmilingly silent with fixed needle-sharpMuch-meaning eyes that seemed to interceptPaul's very thoughts ere they had time to warpFrom earnest into sport the words they leaptTo life with—changed as when maltreated harpRenders in tinkle what some player-prigMeans for a grave tune though it proves a jig.

"Eh, my Diana?" But Diana kept

Smilingly silent with fixed needle-sharp

Much-meaning eyes that seemed to intercept

Paul's very thoughts ere they had time to warp

From earnest into sport the words they leapt

To life with—changed as when maltreated harp

Renders in tinkle what some player-prig

Means for a grave tune though it proves a jig.

CXX

"What, Paul, and are my pains thus thrown away,My lessons end in loss?" at length fall slowThe pitying syllables, her lips allayThe satire of by keeping in full flow,Above their coral reef, bright smiles at play:"Can it be, Paul thus fails to rightly knowAnd altogether estimate applauseAs just so many asinine hee-haws?

"What, Paul, and are my pains thus thrown away,

My lessons end in loss?" at length fall slow

The pitying syllables, her lips allay

The satire of by keeping in full flow,

Above their coral reef, bright smiles at play:

"Can it be, Paul thus fails to rightly know

And altogether estimate applause

As just so many asinine hee-haws?

CXXI

"I thought to show you" ... "Show me," Paul inbroke,"My poetry is rubbish, and the worldThat rings with my renown a sorry joke!What fairer test of worth than that, form furled,I entered the arena? Yet you croakJust as if Phœbé and not Phœbus hurledThe dart and struck the Python! What, he crawlsHumbly in dust before your feet, not Paul's?

"I thought to show you" ... "Show me," Paul inbroke,

"My poetry is rubbish, and the world

That rings with my renown a sorry joke!

What fairer test of worth than that, form furled,

I entered the arena? Yet you croak

Just as if Phœbé and not Phœbus hurled

The dart and struck the Python! What, he crawls

Humbly in dust before your feet, not Paul's?

CXXII

"Nay, 't is no laughing matter though absurdIf there 's an end of honesty on earth!La Roque sends letters, lying every word!Voltaire makes verse, and of himself makes mirthTo the remotest age! Rousseau's the thirdWho, driven to despair amid such dearthOf people that want praising, finds no oneMore fit to praise than Paul the simpleton!

"Nay, 't is no laughing matter though absurd

If there 's an end of honesty on earth!

La Roque sends letters, lying every word!

Voltaire makes verse, and of himself makes mirth

To the remotest age! Rousseau's the third

Who, driven to despair amid such dearth

Of people that want praising, finds no one

More fit to praise than Paul the simpleton!

CXXIII

"Somebody says—if a man writes at allIt is to show the writer's kith and kinHe was unjustly thought a natural;And truly, sister, I have yet to winYour favorable word, it seems, for PaulWhose poetry you count not worth a pinThough well enough esteemed by these Voltaires,Rousseaus and such-like: let them quack, who cares?"

"Somebody says—if a man writes at all

It is to show the writer's kith and kin

He was unjustly thought a natural;

And truly, sister, I have yet to win

Your favorable word, it seems, for Paul

Whose poetry you count not worth a pin

Though well enough esteemed by these Voltaires,

Rousseaus and such-like: let them quack, who cares?"

CXXIV

"—To Paris with you, Paul! Not one word's wasteFurther: my scrupulosity was vain!Go triumph! Be my foolish fears effacedFrom memory's record! Go, to come againWith glory crowned,—by sister re-embraced,Cured of that strange delusion of her brainWhich led her to suspect that Paris gloatsOn male limbs mostly when in petticoats!"

"—To Paris with you, Paul! Not one word's waste

Further: my scrupulosity was vain!

Go triumph! Be my foolish fears effaced

From memory's record! Go, to come again

With glory crowned,—by sister re-embraced,

Cured of that strange delusion of her brain

Which led her to suspect that Paris gloats

On male limbs mostly when in petticoats!"

CXXV

So laughed her last word, with the little touchOf malice proper to the outraged prideOf any artist in a work too muchShorn of its merits. "By all means, be triedThe opposite procedure! Cast your crutchAway, no longer crippled, nor divideThe credit of your march to the World's FairWith sister Cherry-cheeks who helped you there!"

So laughed her last word, with the little touch

Of malice proper to the outraged pride

Of any artist in a work too much

Shorn of its merits. "By all means, be tried

The opposite procedure! Cast your crutch

Away, no longer crippled, nor divide

The credit of your march to the World's Fair

With sister Cherry-cheeks who helped you there!"

CXXVI

Crippled, forsooth! What courser sprightlier prancedParis-ward than did Paul? Nay, dreams lent wings:He flew, or seemed to fly, by dreams entranced.Dreams? wide-awake realities: no thingsDreamed merely were the missives that advancedThe claim of Malcrais to consort with kingsCrowned by Apollo—not to say with queensCinctured by Venus for Idalian scenes.

Crippled, forsooth! What courser sprightlier pranced

Paris-ward than did Paul? Nay, dreams lent wings:

He flew, or seemed to fly, by dreams entranced.

Dreams? wide-awake realities: no things

Dreamed merely were the missives that advanced

The claim of Malcrais to consort with kings

Crowned by Apollo—not to say with queens

Cinctured by Venus for Idalian scenes.

CXXVII

Soon he arrives, forthwith is found beforeThe outer gate of glory. Bold tic-tocAnnounces there's a giant at the door."Ay, sir, here dwells the Chevalier La Roque.""Lackey! Malcrais—mind, no word less nor more!—Desires his presence. I've unearthed the brock:Now, to transfix him!" There stands Paul erect,Inched out his uttermost, for more effect.

Soon he arrives, forthwith is found before

The outer gate of glory. Bold tic-toc

Announces there's a giant at the door.

"Ay, sir, here dwells the Chevalier La Roque."

"Lackey! Malcrais—mind, no word less nor more!—

Desires his presence. I've unearthed the brock:

Now, to transfix him!" There stands Paul erect,

Inched out his uttermost, for more effect.

CXXVIII

A bustling entrance: "Idol of my flame!Can it be that my heart attains at lastIts longing? that you stand, the very sameAs in my visions?... Ha! hey, how?" aghastStops short the rapture. "Oh, my boy's to blame!You merely are the messenger! Too fastMy fancy rushed to a conclusion. Pooh!Well, sir, the lady's substitute is—who?"

A bustling entrance: "Idol of my flame!

Can it be that my heart attains at last

Its longing? that you stand, the very same

As in my visions?... Ha! hey, how?" aghast

Stops short the rapture. "Oh, my boy's to blame!

You merely are the messenger! Too fast

My fancy rushed to a conclusion. Pooh!

Well, sir, the lady's substitute is—who?"

CXXIX

Then Paul's smirk grows inordinate. "Shake hands!Friendship not love awaits you, master mine,Though nor Malcrais nor any mistress standsTo meet your ardor! So, you don't divineWho wrote the verses wherewith ring the land'sWhole length and breadth? Just he whereof no lineHad ever leave to blot your Journal—eh?Paul Desforges Maillard—otherwise Malcrais!"

Then Paul's smirk grows inordinate. "Shake hands!

Friendship not love awaits you, master mine,

Though nor Malcrais nor any mistress stands

To meet your ardor! So, you don't divine

Who wrote the verses wherewith ring the land's

Whole length and breadth? Just he whereof no line

Had ever leave to blot your Journal—eh?

Paul Desforges Maillard—otherwise Malcrais!"

CXXX

And there the two stood, stare confronting smirk,A while uncertain which should yield thepas.In vain the Chevalier beat brain for quirkTo help in this conjuncture; at length, "Bah!Boh! Since I've made myself a fool, why shirkThe punishment of folly? Ha, ha, ha,Let me return your handshake!" Comic sockFor tragic buskin prompt thus changed La Roque.

And there the two stood, stare confronting smirk,

A while uncertain which should yield thepas.

In vain the Chevalier beat brain for quirk

To help in this conjuncture; at length, "Bah!

Boh! Since I've made myself a fool, why shirk

The punishment of folly? Ha, ha, ha,

Let me return your handshake!" Comic sock

For tragic buskin prompt thus changed La Roque.

CXXXI

"I'm nobody—a wren-like journalist;You've flown at higher game and winged your bird,The golden eagle! That's the grand acquist!Voltaire's sly Muse, the tiger-cat, has purred.Prettily round your feet; but if she missedPriority of stroking, soon were stirredThe dormant spitfire. To Voltaire! away,Paul Desforges Maillard, otherwise Malcrais!"

"I'm nobody—a wren-like journalist;

You've flown at higher game and winged your bird,

The golden eagle! That's the grand acquist!

Voltaire's sly Muse, the tiger-cat, has purred.

Prettily round your feet; but if she missed

Priority of stroking, soon were stirred

The dormant spitfire. To Voltaire! away,

Paul Desforges Maillard, otherwise Malcrais!"

CXXXII

Whereupon, arm in arm, and head in air,The two begin their journey. Need I say,La Roque had felt the talon of Voltaire,Had a long-standing little debt to pay,And pounced, you may depend, on such a rareOccasion for its due discharge? So, gayAnd grenadier-like, marching to assault,They reach the enemy's abode, there halt.

Whereupon, arm in arm, and head in air,

The two begin their journey. Need I say,

La Roque had felt the talon of Voltaire,

Had a long-standing little debt to pay,

And pounced, you may depend, on such a rare

Occasion for its due discharge? So, gay

And grenadier-like, marching to assault,

They reach the enemy's abode, there halt.

CXXXIII

"I'll be announcer!" quoth La Roque: "I know,Better than you, perhaps, my Breton bard,How to procure an audience! He's not slowTo smell a rat, this scamp Voltaire! DiscardThe petticoats too soon,—you'll never showYourhaut-de-chaussesand all they've made or marredIn your true person. Here's his servant. Pray,Will the great man see Demoiselle Malcrais?"

"I'll be announcer!" quoth La Roque: "I know,

Better than you, perhaps, my Breton bard,

How to procure an audience! He's not slow

To smell a rat, this scamp Voltaire! Discard

The petticoats too soon,—you'll never show

Yourhaut-de-chaussesand all they've made or marred

In your true person. Here's his servant. Pray,

Will the great man see Demoiselle Malcrais?"

CXXXIV

Now, the great man was also, no whit less,The man of self-respect,—more great man he!And bowed to social usage, dressed the dress,And decorated to the fit degreeHis person; 't was enough to bear the stressOf battle in the field, without, when freeFrom outside foes, inviting friends' attackBy—sword in hand? No,—ill-made coat on back.

Now, the great man was also, no whit less,

The man of self-respect,—more great man he!

And bowed to social usage, dressed the dress,

And decorated to the fit degree

His person; 't was enough to bear the stress

Of battle in the field, without, when free

From outside foes, inviting friends' attack

By—sword in hand? No,—ill-made coat on back.

CXXXV

And, since the announcement of his visitorSurprised him at his toilet,—never glassHad such solicitation! "Black, now—orBrown be the killing wig to wear? Alas,Where's the rouge gone, this cheek were better forA tender touch of? Melted to a mass,All my pomatum! There 's at all eventsA devil—for he's got among my scents!"

And, since the announcement of his visitor

Surprised him at his toilet,—never glass

Had such solicitation! "Black, now—or

Brown be the killing wig to wear? Alas,

Where's the rouge gone, this cheek were better for

A tender touch of? Melted to a mass,

All my pomatum! There 's at all events

A devil—for he's got among my scents!"

CXXXVI

So, "barbered ten times o'er," as AntonyPaced to his Cleopatra, did at lastVoltaire proceed to the fair presence: highIn color, proud in port, as if a blastOf trumpet bade the world "Take note! draws nighTo Beauty, Power! Behold the Iconoclast,The Poet, the Philosopher, the RodOf iron for imposture! Ah my God!"

So, "barbered ten times o'er," as Antony

Paced to his Cleopatra, did at last

Voltaire proceed to the fair presence: high

In color, proud in port, as if a blast

Of trumpet bade the world "Take note! draws nigh

To Beauty, Power! Behold the Iconoclast,

The Poet, the Philosopher, the Rod

Of iron for imposture! Ah my God!"

CXXXVII

For there stands smirking Paul, and—what lights fierceThe situation as with sulphur flash—There grinning stands La Roque! No carte-and-tierceObserves the grinning fencer, but, full dashFrom breast to shoulder-blade, the thrusts transpierceThat armor against which so idly clashThe swords of priests and pedants! Victors there,Two smirk and grin who have befooled—Voltaire!

For there stands smirking Paul, and—what lights fierce

The situation as with sulphur flash—

There grinning stands La Roque! No carte-and-tierce

Observes the grinning fencer, but, full dash

From breast to shoulder-blade, the thrusts transpierce

That armor against which so idly clash

The swords of priests and pedants! Victors there,

Two smirk and grin who have befooled—Voltaire!

CXXXVIII

A moment's horror; then quick turn-aboutOn high-heeled shoe,—flurry of ruffles, flounceOf wig-ties and of coat-tails,—and so outOf door banged wrathfully behind, goes—bounce—Voltaire in tragic exit! vows, no doubt,Vengeance upon the couple. Did he trounceEither, in point of fact? His anger's flashsubsided if a culprit craved his cash.

A moment's horror; then quick turn-about

On high-heeled shoe,—flurry of ruffles, flounce

Of wig-ties and of coat-tails,—and so out

Of door banged wrathfully behind, goes—bounce—

Voltaire in tragic exit! vows, no doubt,

Vengeance upon the couple. Did he trounce

Either, in point of fact? His anger's flash

subsided if a culprit craved his cash.

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