Ballads of a Bohemian Part 4

It was an express order for two hundred francs, in payment of a bit of verse.. . . So to-day I will celebrate. I will lunch at the D'Harcourt, I will dine on the Grand Boulevard, I will go to the theater.

Well, here's the thing that has turned the tide for me. It is somewhat in the vein of "Sourdough" Service, the Yukon bard. I don't think much of his stuff, but they say he makes heaps of money. I can well believe it, for he drives a Hispano-Suiza in the Bois every afternoon. The other night he was with a crowd at the Dome Cafe, a chubby chap who sits in a corner and seldom speaks. I was disappointed. I thought he was a big, hairy man who swore like a trooper and mixed brandy with his beer.

He only drank Vichy, poor fellow!

Lucille

Of course you've heard of the _Nancy Lee_, and how she sailed away On her famous quest of the Arctic flea, to the wilds of Hudson's Bay?

For it was a foreign Prince's whim to collect this tiny cuss, And a golden quid was no more to him than a copper to coves like us.

So we sailed away and our hearts were gay as we gazed on the gorgeous scene; And we laughed with glee as we caught the flea of the wolf and the wolverine; Yea, our hearts were light as the parasite of the ermine rat we slew, And the great musk ox, and the silver fox, and the moose and the caribou.

And we laughed with zest as the insect pest of the marmot crowned our zeal, And the wary mink and the wily "link", and the walrus and the seal.

And with eyes aglow on the scornful snow we danced a rigadoon, Round the lonesome lair of the Arctic hare, by the light of the silver moon.

But the time was nigh to homeward hie, when, imagine our despair!

For the best of the lot we hadn't got--the flea of the polar bear.

Oh, his face was long and his breath was strong, as the Skipper he says to me: "I wants you to linger 'ere, my lad, by the sh.o.r.es of the Hartic Sea; I wants you to 'unt the polar bear the peris.h.i.+n' winter through, And if flea ye find of its breed and kind, there's a 'undred quid for you."

But I shook my head: "No, Cap," I said; "it's yourself I'd like to please, But I tells ye flat I wouldn't do that if ye went on yer bended knees."

Then the Captain spat in the seething brine, and he says: "Good luck to you, If it can't be did for a 'undred quid, supposin' we call it two?"

So that was why they said good-by, and they sailed and left me there-- Alone, alone in the Arctic Zone to hunt for the polar bear.

Oh, the days were slow and packed with woe, till I thought they would never end; And I used to sit when the fire was lit, with my pipe for my only friend.

And I tried to sing some rollicky thing, but my song broke off in a prayer, And I'd drowse and dream by the driftwood gleam; I'd dream of a polar bear; I'd dream of a cloudlike polar bear that blotted the stars on high, With ravenous jaws and flenzing claws, and the flames of h.e.l.l in his eye.

And I'd trap around on the frozen ground, as a proper hunter ought, And beasts I'd find of every kind, but never the one I sought.

Never a track in the white ice-pack that humped and heaved and flawed, Till I came to think: "Why, strike me pink! if the creature ain't a fraud."

And then one night in the waning light, as I hurried home to sup, I hears a roar by the cabin door, and a great white hulk heaves up.

So my rifle flashed, and a bullet crashed; dead, dead as a stone fell he, And I gave a cheer, for there in his ear--Gosh ding me!--a tiny flea.

At last, at last! Oh, I clutched it fast, and I gazed on it with pride; And I thrust it into a biscuit-tin, and I shut it safe inside; With a lid of gla.s.s for the light to pa.s.s, and s.p.a.ce to leap and play; Oh, it kept alive; yea, seemed to thrive, as I watched it night and day.

And I used to sit and sing to it, and I s.h.i.+elded it from harm, And many a hearty feed it had on the heft of my hairy arm.

For you'll never know in that land of snow how lonesome a man can feel; So I made a fuss of the little cuss, and I christened it "Lucille".

But the longest winter has its end, and the ice went out to sea, And I saw one day a s.h.i.+p in the bay, and there was the _Nancy Lee_.

So a boat was lowered and I went aboard, and they opened wide their eyes-- Yes, they gave a cheer when the truth was clear, and they saw my precious prize.

And then it was all like a giddy dream; but to cut my story short, We sailed away on the fifth of May to the foreign Prince's court; To a palmy land and a palace grand, and the little Prince was there, And a fat Princess in a satin dress with a crown of gold on her hair.

And they showed me into a s.h.i.+ny room, just him and her and me, And the Prince he was pleased and friendly-like, and he calls for drinks for three.

And I shows them my battered biscuit-tin, and I makes my modest spiel, And they laughed, they did, when I opened the lid, and out there popped Lucille.

Oh, the Prince was glad, I could soon see that, and the Princess she was too; And Lucille waltzed round on the tablecloth as she often used to do.

And the Prince pulled out a purse of gold, and he put it in my hand; And he says: "It was worth all that, I'm told, to stay in that nasty land."

And then he turned with a sudden cry, and he clutched at his royal beard; And the Princess screamed, and well she might--for Lucille had disappeared.

"She must be here," said his n.o.ble Nibbs, so we hunted all around; Oh, we searched that place, but never a trace of the little beast we found.

So I shook my head, and I glumly said: "Gol darn the saucy cuss!

It's mighty queer, but she isn't here; so . . . she must be on one of us.

You'll pardon me if I make so free, but--there's just one thing to do: If you'll kindly go for a half a mo' I'll search me garments through."

Then all alone on the s.h.i.+ny throne I stripped from head to heel; In vain, in vain; it was very plain that I hadn't got Lucille.

So I garbed again, and I told the Prince, and he scratched his august head; "I suppose if she hasn't selected you, it must be me," he said.

So _he_ retired; but he soon came back, and his features showed distress: "Oh, it isn't you and it isn't me." . . . Then we looked at the Princess.

So _she_ retired; and we heard a scream, and she opened wide the door; And her fingers twain were pinched to pain, but a radiant smile she wore: "It's here," she cries, "our precious prize.

Oh, I found it right away. . . ."

Then I ran to her with a shout of joy, but I choked with a wild dismay.

I clutched the back of the golden throne, and the room began to reel . . .

What she held to me was, ah yes! a flea, but . . . _it wasn't my Lucille_.

After all, I did not celebrate. I sat on the terrace of the Cafe Napolitain on the Grand Boulevard, half hypnotized by the pa.s.sing crowd.

And as I sat I fell into conversation with a G.o.d-like stranger who sipped some golden ambrosia. He told me he was an actor and introduced me to his beverage, which he called a "Suze-Anni". He soon left me, but the effect of the golden liquid remained, and there came over me a desire to write. _C'etait plus fort que moi._ So instead of going to the Folies Bergere I spent all evening in the Omnium Bar near the Bourse, and wrote the following:

On the Boulevard

Oh, it's pleasant sitting here, Seeing all the people pa.s.s; You beside your _bock_ of beer, I behind my _demi-ta.s.se_.

Chatting of no matter what.

You the Mummer, I the Bard; Oh, it's jolly, is it not?-- Sitting on the Boulevard.

More amusing than a book, If a chap has eyes to see; For, no matter where I look, Stories, stories jump at me.

Moving tales my pen might write; Poems plain on every face; Monologues you could recite With inimitable grace.

(Ah! Imagination's power) See yon _demi-mondaine_ there, Idly toying with a flower, Smiling with a pensive air . . .

Well, her smile is but a mask, For I saw within her m.u.f.f Such a wicked little flask: Vitriol--ugh! the beastly stuff.

Now look back beside the bar.

See yon curled and scented _beau_, Puffing at a fine cigar-- _Sale espece de maquereau_.

Well (of course, it's all surmise), It's for him she holds her place; When he pa.s.ses she will rise, Dash the vitriol in his face.

Quick they'll carry him away, Pack him in a Red Cross car; Her they'll hurry, so they say, To the cells of St. Lazare.

What will happen then, you ask?

What will all the sequel be?

Ah! Imagination's task Isn't easy . . . let me see . . .

She will go to jail, no doubt, For a year, or maybe two; Then as soon as she gets out Start her bawdy life anew.

He will lie within a ward, Harmless as a man can be, With his face grotesquely scarred, And his eyes that cannot see.

Then amid the city's din He will stand against a wall, With around his neck a tin Into which the pennies fall.

She will pa.s.s (I see it plain, Like a cinematograph), She will halt and turn again, Look and look, and maybe laugh.

Well, I'm not so sure of that-- Whether she will laugh or cry.

He will hold a battered hat To the lady pa.s.sing by.

He will smile a cringing smile, And into his grimy hold, With a laugh (or sob) the while, She will drop a piece of gold.

"Bless you, lady," he will say, And get grandly drunk that night.