Ballads of a Bohemian Part 17

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, Swis.h.i.+ng 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, G.o.d in Heaven help me as I walk, walk, walk!

III

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 cla.s.s. 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-cla.s.s novelists ended with d.i.c.kens and Thackeray. Then followed some of the second cla.s.s, Stevenson, Meredith, Hardy. And to-day we have three novelists of the third cla.s.s, 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 turn _bourgeois_."

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 n.o.body 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:

Poor Peter

Blind Peter Piper used to play All up and down the city; I'd often meet him on my way, And throw a coin for pity.

But all amid his sparkling tones His ear was quick as any To catch upon the cobble-stones The jingle of my penny.

And as upon a day that shone He 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 spoke Were 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 trill As if his music mattered.

And somehow though the city looks Soaked through and through with shadows, He makes you think of singing brooks And larks and sunny meadows.

Poor chap! he often starves, they say; Well, well, I can believe it; For when you chuck a coin his way He'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 gla.s.s 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 ma.s.sive 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.

The Wistful One

I sought the trails of South and North, I wandered East and West; But pride and pa.s.sion drove me forth And 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 friends.h.i.+p, and on looking through my note-book I find the following: