BOHEMIA
|
|
Where’s
Bohemia?—Anywhere
That Life is full and rich and rare.
Yours—a
verandah,
Mine—an attic;
Her’s—a
salon
|
5 |
Epigrammatic;
Artists—of
course;
A writer or two;
Beer and
tobacco,
I fear—both due.
|
10 |
But
music is music,
And art is art,
The Muses
are happy,
Sans Mammon and Mart.
There’s
Cordeux, the tenor,
|
15 |
You’ve
heard him—in halls,
When the
impotent pianist
Accompanies him. “Calls,
Encores
and bravas,”—
Oh! yes, I’ve no doubt!
|
20 |
But
hear him to-night
Chez Essarre and without
That tag,
the accompanist,
Then you shall see
For the
first time, my Cordeux,
|
25 |
As a
god—mon ami!
For he strikes but a chord
And the
women are still,
Julie, Duchesse, La Riva,
Old Gautier
and “Lil.”
|
30 |
We don’t
Talk in Bohemia,
Mark that—when
you go,
But, eyes, ears—are riveted,
Heads
are bent low.
I’ve seen tears on occasions
|
35 |
When
Gounod is sung,
And Godard or Schumann.
Last night
“Renée” hung
To the Princess B’s arm
As the
Vorspiel was played.
|
40 |
Her
story’s a tragic one.
Brilliant—arrayed
In her third-act lace costume,
Yet suffering—apart—
Two children in Russia,
|
45 |
A
spouse—without heart,
You know him—Count Dinitry.
Such women
as she
Should’nt marry. Sh! well,
This—between
you and me.
|
50 |
But
it’s high time we dined, Carl.
I’ve
two francs to spare.
Come! empty your pockets—
Three?
Lucky, mon cher.
Then, après, we’ll fly
|
55 |
To
Essarre’s charming flat—
You shall hear some real music,
I promise
you that.
And as for the goodness
Or badness
of such
|
60 |
As we’ll
meet there—why—Carl,
It will
not matter—much.
Take the average always
Of women—men
too—
If the faulty are legion,
|
65 |
The
good—alas—few,
’Tis out of Bohemia
The same—take
my word!
In the village, the valley,
The big
London herd!
|
70 |
Bohemia’s
no worse—
And no
better—I think,
Than the rest of the world.
There’s
Essarre now—in pink,
On her way home to dinner,
|
75 |
Old
Claude by her side.
For ten years he is dumb,
Before
that the chief pride
Of the Comédie Française.
The generous
soul!
|
80 |
That
must share with some other
Her hard-earned
rent-roll.
Yet her temper’s not sweet
If the
“supers” say true—
Bah! Who is perfection?
|
85 |
Not
I—and not—you.
Bohemia’s a medley;
Mad virtues,
sane whims;
For Gretchen plays billiards,
While
Mephisto sings hymns.
|
90 |
Faust
patiently rocking
A querulous
child,
Is henpecked by Martha
No matron
too mild;
Rich Mdme. La Riva,
|
95 |
A
ballet-girl once,
Drives daily where Costo
Her coachman
confronts.
Old Costo’s her father—
She meets
him at mass,
|
100 |
And
keeps him in clothing,
Is his
“kind, clever lass!”
To share in her greatness
He never
aspires;
Gets drunk on her earnings,
|
105 |
Adores
and admires.
We rise in Bohemia
From all
sorts of places,
From alien, mongrel,
And quite
tabooed races.
|
110 |
And
where is Bohemia?—Anywhere
That Life
is subtle—sad—Deux Frères
Provencales—Pierre
et George—entrez!
I had
a good meal there yesterday.
|
|
|
