Read Ebook: The Real Latin Quarter by Smith F Berkeley Frank Berkeley Smith F Berkeley Frank Berkeley Illustrator Smith Francis Hopkinson Illustrator

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Ebook has 197 lines and 33510 words, and 4 pages

Transcriber's Note: Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original printing. Some minor errors in punctuation and capitalisation have been corrected, and some changes to the text are listed at the end.

Wherein the excellence of sweete Poesie is concluded.

Not at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot, Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleede: But knowne, worth did in mine of time proceede, Till by degrees it had full conquest got. I sawe and lik'd, I lik'd but loved not, I lov'd, but did not straight what Love decreede: At length to Loves decrees, I forst agreede: Yet with repining at so partiall lot. Now even that foot-steppe of lost libertie Is gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite: I call it praise to suffer tyrannie, And now imploy the remnant of my wit To make my selfe believe that all is well, While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.

Alas, have I not paine enough my friend, Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre, Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre; While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend, But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend, To greeve me worse in saying, that desier Doth plunge my well form'd soule, even in the mier Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende. If that be sinne which doth the manners frame, Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede, Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame; If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede, A loathing of all lose unchastitie; Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.

Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye; See there that boy, that murthering boy I say, Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye, Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray. So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy, Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay: As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye. There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye. Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did, And staid pleasd with prospect of the place, While that black hue from me the bad guest hid, But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace, And there descried the glisterings of his dart: But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.

With how sad steps ? Moone thou clim'st the skyes, How silently, and with how meane a face, What may it be, that even in heavenly place, That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes? Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case, I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace. To mee that feele the like, my state discries. Then even of fellowship ? Moone tell me, Is constant love deemde there but want of wit? Are beauties there, as proude as here there be? Doe they above, love to be lov'd, and yet Those Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse? Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?

What, have I thus betraide my libertie, Can those black beames, such burning marks engrave In my free side, or am I borne a slave, Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie? Or want I sence to feele my miserie, Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have, Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave, May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie. Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is; I may, I must, I can, I will, I doe Leave following that which it is gaine to misse, Let her goe: soft, but there she comes, goe to, Unkind I love you, not, that eye Doth make my hart give to my tongue a lye.

I on my horse, and Love on me doth trie Our horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove, A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love; And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry. The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tie Are reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move, Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse above Of hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye: The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art, Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurre My horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart, He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre, And now hath made me to his hand so right, That in the manage, my selfe do take delight.

Oh how the pleasant ayres of true love bee Inflicted by those vapours, which arise From out that noysome gulfe: which gaping lies Betweene the jawes of hellish Jelousey. A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery. Beauties plague, Vertues scurge, succour of lyes: Who his owne joy to his owne heart applyes, And onely cherish doth with injuries: Who since he hath by natures speciall grace, So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace, So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes, So manie eyes aye seeking their owne woe. So ample eares, that never good newes knowe, Is it not ill that such a divell wants hornes?

Nymph of the garden where all beauties be, Beauties which do in excellencie passe, His who till death lockt in a watry glasse, Or hirs whom nak'd the Trojan boy did see. Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree, Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse, Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasse From comming neere these Cherries banish mee, For though full of desire, emptie of wit, Admitted late by your best graced grace, I caught at one of them an hungry bit, Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place, And so I sweare even by the same delite, I will but kisse, I never more will bite.

I see the house my harte thy selfe containe, Beware full Sailes drown not thy tottering Barge, Least joy by nature apt, Thee to thy wracke beyond thy limits straine, Nor doe like Lords whose weake confused braine, Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge, While every office themselves will discharge, With doing all leave nothing done but paine, But give apt servants their due place; let eye See beauties totall summe summ'd in their face, Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye, Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbrace The Globe of weale, lipps Lov's Indentures make. Thou but of all the kingly tribute take.

Out Traytour absence dar'st thou counsell mee From my deare Captainnesse to runne away, Because in brave arraye here marcheth shee That to winne mee oft showes a present paye. Is Faith so weake, or is such force in thee? When Sunne is hid, can Starres such beames displaie? Cannot Heavens foode once felt keepe stomacks free From base desire on earthly cares to praie? Tush absence, while thy mistes eclypse that light, My Orphan sense flyes to the inward sight: Where memorie settes foorth the beames of Love, That where before heart lov'd and eyes did see, In heart my sight and Love now coupled be, United powres make eche the stronger prove.

Though with good cause thou lik'st so well the night. Since kind or chaunce gives both one libertie, Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be: Night bard from Sunne, thou from thine own Sunnes light Silence in both displaies his sullen might: Slowe Heavens in both do hold the one degree, That full of doubts, thou of perplexitie: Thy teares expresse nights native moysture right, In both a wofull solitarines: In night of Spirites the gastly power sturr, And in our sprites are Spirits gastlines: But but nights sights the ods hath fure, For that at length invites us to some rest, Thou though still tyr'd, yet still dost it detest.

When farre spent night perswades each mortall eie To whome nor Art nor Nature granted light: To lay his then marke wanting shaftes of sight; Clos'd whith their quivers in Sleeps armorie; With windowes ope then most my heart doth lye Viewing the shape of darknes and delight, And takes that sad hue, with which inward might Of his mazde powres he keeps just harmony: But when birds chirpe aire, and sweet aire which is Mornes messenger with rose enameld skyes Calls each wight to salute the heaven of blisse; Intombd of lids then buried are mine eyes, Forst by their Lord who is ashamd to find Such light in sence with such a darkned mind.

Have I caught my heavenly Juel Teaching Sleepe most faire to be: Now will I teach her, that she When shee wakes is too too cruell.

While favour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought, Thought waited on delight, and speach did follow thought, Then drew my tongue and pen records unto thy glorie; I thought all words were lost that were not spent of thee, I thought each place was darke but where thy lights would be, And all eares worse than deaffe, that heard not out thy storie.

It is nearly eleven when the curtain parts and Marcel Legay rushes hurriedly up the aisle and greets the audience, slamming his straw hat upon the lid of the piano. He passes his hand over his bald pate--gives an extra polish to his eyeglasses--beams with an irresistibly funny expression upon his audience--coughs--whistles--passes a few remarks, and then, adjusting his glasses on his stubby red nose, looks serio-comically over his roll of music. He is dressed in a long, black frock-coat reaching nearly to his heels. This coat, with its velvet collar, discloses a frilled white shirt and a white flowing bow scarf; these, with a pair of black-and-white check trousers, complete this every-day attire.

But the man inside these voluminous clothes is even still more eccentric. Short, indefinitely past fifty years of age, with a round face and merry eyes, and a bald head whose lower portion is framed in a fringe of long hair, reminding one of the coiffure of some pre-Raphaelite saint--indeed, so striking is this resemblance that the good bard is often caricatured with a halo surrounding this medieval fringe.

In the meantime, while this famous singer is selecting a song, he is overwhelmed with demands for his most popular ones. A dozen students and girls at one end of the little hall, now swimming in a haze of pipe and cigarette smoke, are hammering with sticks and parasols for "Le matador avec les pieds du vent"; another crowd is yelling for "La Goularde." Marcel Legay smiles at them all through his eyeglasses, then roars at them to keep quiet--and finally the clamor in the room gradually subsides--here and there a word--a giggle--and finally silence.

"Now, my children, I will sing to you the story of Clarette," says the bard; "it is a very sad histoire. I have read it," and he smiles and cocks one eye.

His baritone voice still possesses considerable fire, and in his heroic songs he is dramatic. In "The Miller who grinds for Love," the feeling and intensity and dramatic quality he puts into its rendition are stirring. As he finishes his last encore, amidst a round of applause, he grasps his hat from the piano, jams it over his bald pate with its celestial fringe, and rushes for the door. Here he stops, and, turning for a second, cheers back at the crowd, waving the straw hat above his head. The next moment he is having a cooling drink among his confr?res in the anteroom.

Such "poet-singers" as Paul Delmet and Dominique Bonnaud have made the "Grillon" a success; and others like Numa Bl?s, Gabriel Montoya, D'Herval, Fargy, Tourtal, and Edmond Teulet--all of them well-known over in Montmartre, where they are welcomed with the same popularity that they meet with at "Le Grillon."

Genius, alas, is but poorly paid in this Bohemia! There are so many who can draw, so many who can sing, so many poets and writers and sculptors. To many of the cleverest, half a loaf is too often better than no bread.

You will find often in these cabarets and in the caf?s and along the boulevard, a man who, for a few sous, will render a portrait or a caricature on the spot. You learn that this journeyman artist once was a well-known painter of the Quarter, who had drawn for years in the academies. The man at present is a wreck, as he sits in a caf? with portfolio on his knees, his black slouch hat drawn over his scraggly gray hair. But his hand, thin and drawn from too much stimulant and too little food, has lost none of its knowledge of form and line; the sketch is strong, true, and with a chic about it and a simplicity of expression that delight you. You ask why he has not done better.

"Ah!" he replies, "it is a long story, monsieur." So long and so much of it that he can not remember it all! Perhaps it was the woman with the velvety black eyes--tall and straight--the best dancer in all Paris. Yes, he remembers some of it--long, miserable years--years of struggles and jealousy, and finally lies and fights and drunkenness; after it was all over, he was too gray and old and tired to care!

One sees many such derelicts in Paris among these people who have worn themselves out with amusement, for here the world lives for pleasure, for "la grande vie!" To the man, every serious effort he is obliged to make trends toward one idea--that of the bon vivant--to gain success and fame, but to gain it with the idea of how much personal daily pleasure it will bring him. Ennui is a word one hears constantly; if it rains toute le monde est triste. To have one's gaiety interrupted is regarded as a calamity, and "tout le monde" will sympathize with you. To live a day without the pleasures of life in proportion to one's purse is considered a day lost.

If you speak of anything that has pleased you one will, with a gay rising inflection of the voice and a smile, say: "Ah! c'est gai l?-bas--and monsieur was well amused while in that beautiful country?" "ah!--tiens! c'est gentil ?a!" they will exclaim, as you enthusiastically continue to explain. They never dull your enthusiasm by short phlegmatic or pessimistic replies. And when you are sad they will condone so genuinely with you that you forget your disappointments in the charming pleasantry of their sympathy. But all this continual race for pleasure is destined in the course of time to end in ennui!

The Parisian goes into the latest sport because it affords him a new sensation. Being blas? of all else in life, he plunges into automobiling, buys a white and red racer--a ponderous flying juggernaut that growls and snorts and smells of the lower regions whenever it stands still, trembling in its anger and impatience to be off, while its owner, with some automobiling Marie, sits chatting on the caf? terrace over a cooling drink. The two are covered with dust and very thirsty; Marie wears a long dust-colored ulster, and he a wind-proof coat and high boots. Meanwhile, the locomotive-like affair at the curbstone is working itself into a boiling rage, until finally the brave chauffeur and his chic companion prepare to depart. Marie adjusts her white lace veil, with its goggles, and the chauffeur puts on his own mask as he climbs in; a roar--a snort, a cloud of blue gas, and they are gone!

There are other enthusiasts--those who go up in balloons!

"Ah, you should go ballooning!" one cries enthusiastically, "to be 'en ballon'--so poetic--so fin de si?cle! It is a fantaisie charmante!"

In a balloon one forgets the world--one is no longer a part of it--no longer mortal. What romance there is in going up above everything with the woman one loves--comrades in danger--the ropes--the wicker cage--the ceiling of stars above one and Paris below no bigger than a gridiron! Paris! lost for the time from one's memory. How chic to shoot straight up among the drifting clouds and forget the sordid little world, even the memory of one's intrigues!

"Enfin seuls," they say to each other, as the big Frenchman and the chic Parisienne countess peer down over the edge of the basket, sipping a little chartreuse from the same traveling cup; she, with the black hair and white skin, and gowned "en ballon" in a costume by Paillard; he in his peajacket buttoned close under his heavy beard. They seem to brush through and against the clouds! A gentle breath from heaven makes the basket decline a little and the ropes creak against the hardwood clinch blocks. It grows colder, and he wraps her closer in his own coat.

"Courage, my child," he says; "see, we have gone a great distance; to-morrow before sundown we shall descend in Belgium."

"Horrible!" cries the Countess; "I do not like those Belgians."

"Ah! but you shall see, Th?r?se, one shall go where one pleases soon; we are patient, we aeronauts; we shall bring credit to La Belle France; we have courage and perseverance; we shall give many dinners and weep over the failures of our brave comrades, to make the dirigible balloon 'pratique.' We shall succeed! Then Voil?! our d?jeuner in Paris and our dinner where we will."

Th?r?se taps her polished nails against the edge of the wicker cage and hums a little chansonette.

"Je t'aime"--she murmurs.

I did not see this myself, and I do not know the fair Th?r?se or the gentleman who buttons his coat under his whiskers; but you should have heard one of these ballooning enthusiasts tell it to me in the Taverne du Panth?on the other night. His only regret seemed to be that he, too, could not have a dirigible balloon and a countess--on ten francs a week!

"POCHARD"

Drunkards are not frequent sights in the Quarter; and yet when these people do get drunk, they become as irresponsible as maniacs. Excitable to a degree even when sober, these most wretched among the poor when drunk often appear in front of a caf?--gaunt, wild-eyed, haggard, and filthy--singing in boisterous tones or reciting to you with tense voices a jumble of meaningless thoughts.

The man with the matted hair, and toes out of his boots, will fold his arms melodramatically, and regard you for some moments as you sit in front of him on the terrace. Then he will vent upon you a torrent of abuse, ending in some jumble of socialistic ideas of his own concoction. When he has finished, he will fold his arms again and move on to the next table. He is crazy with absinthe, and no one pays any attention to him. On he strides up the "Boul' Miche," past the caf?s, continuing his ravings. As long as he is moderately peaceful and confines his wandering brain to gesticulations and speech, he is let alone by the police.

You will see sometimes a man and a woman--a teamster out of work or with his wages for the day, and with him a creature--a blear-eyed, slatternly looking woman, in a filthy calico gown. The man clutches her arm, as they sing and stagger up past the caf?s. The woman holds in her claw-like hand a half-empty bottle of cheap red wine. Now and then they stop and share it; the man staggers on; the woman leers and dances and sings; a crowd forms about them. Some years ago this poor girl sat on Friday afternoons in the Luxembourg Gardens--her white parasol on her knees, her dainty, white kid-slippered feet resting on the little stool which the old lady, who rents the chairs, used to bring her. She was regarded as a bonne camarade in those days among the students--one of the idols of the Quarter! But she became impossible, and then an outcast! That women should become outcasts through the hopelessness of their position or the breaking down of their brains can be understood, but that men of ability should sink into the dregs and stay there seems incredible. But it is often so.

Near the rue Monge there is a small caf? and restaurant, a place celebrated for its onion soup and its chicken. From the tables outside, one can see into the small kitchen, with its polished copper sauce-pans hanging about the grill.

Lachaume, the painter, and I were chatting at one of its little tables, he over an absinthe and I over a coffee and cognac. I had dined early this fresh October evening, enjoying to the full the bracing coolness of the air, pungent with the odor of dry leaves and the faint smell of burning brush. The world was hurrying by--in twos and threes--hurrying to warm caf?s, to friends, to lovers. The breeze at twilight set the dry leaves shivering. The sky was turquoise. The yellow glow from the shop windows--the blue-white sparkle of electricity like pendant diamonds--made the Quarter seem fuller of life than ever. These fall days make the little ouvri?res trip along from their work with rosy cheeks, and put happiness and ambition into one's very soul.

Soon the winter will come, with all the boys back from their country haunts, and C?leste and Mimi from Ostende. How gay it will be--this Quartier Latin then! How gay it always is in winter--and then the rainy season. Ah! but one can not have everything. Thus it was that Lachaume and I sat talking, when suddenly a spectre passed--a spectre of a man, his face silent, white, and pinched--drawn like a mummy's.

He stopped and supported his shrunken frame wearily on his crutches, and leaned against a neighboring wall. He made no sound--simply gazed vacantly, with the timidity of some animal, at the door of the small kitchen aglow with the light from the grill. He made no effort to approach the door; only leaned against the gray wall and peered at it patiently.

"A beggar," I said to Lachaume; "poor devil!"

"Ah! old Pochard--yes, poor devil, and once one of the handsomest men in Paris."

"What wrecked him?" I asked.

"What I'm drinking now, mon ami."

"Absinthe?"

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