Robert William Service (Роберт Уильям Сервис)
Room 4: The Painter Chap
He gives me such a bold and curious look, That young American across the way, As if he'd like to put me in a book (Fancies himself a poet, so they say.) Ah well! He'll make no "document" of me. I lock my door. Ha! ha! Now none shall see... Pictures, just pictures piled from roof to floor, Each one a bit of me, a dream fulfilled, A vision of the beauty I adore, My own poor glimpse of glory, passion-thrilled... But now my money's gone, I paint no more. For three days past I have not tasted food; The jeweled colors run... I reel, I faint; They tell me that my pictures are no good, Just crude and childish daubs, a waste of paint. I burned to throw on canvas all I saw -- Twilight on water, tenderness of trees, Wet sands at sunset and the smoking seas, The peace of valleys and the mountain's awe: Emotion swayed me at the thought of these. I sought to paint ere I had learned to draw, And that's the trouble... Ah well! here am I, Facing my failure after struggle long; And there they are, my croutes that none will buy (And doubtless they are right and I am wrong); Well, when one's lost one's faith it's time to die... This knife will do... and now to slash and slash; Rip them to ribands, rend them every one, My dreams and visions -- tear and stab and gash, So that their crudeness may be known to none; Poor, miserable daubs! Ah! there, it's done... And now to close my little window tight. Lo! in the dusking sky, serenely set, The evening star is like a beacon bright. And see! to keep her tender tryst with night How Paris veils herself in violet... Oh, why does God create such men as I? -- All pride and passion and divine desire, Raw, quivering nerve-stuff and devouring fire, Foredoomed to failure though they try and try; Abortive, blindly to destruction hurled; Unfound, unfit to grapple with the world... And now to light my wheezy jet of gas; Chink up the window-crannies and the door, So that no single breath of air may pass; So that I'm sealed air-tight from roof to floor. There, there, that's done; and now there's nothing more... Look at the city's myriad lamps a-shine; See, the calm moon is launching into space... There will be darkness in these eyes of mine Ere it can climb to shine upon my face. Oh, it will find such peace upon my face!... City of Beauty, I have loved you well, A laugh or two I've had, but many a sigh; I've run with you the scale from Heav'n to Hell. Paris, I love you still... good-by, good-by. Thus it all ends -- unhappily, alas! It's time to sleep, and now... blow out the gas... Now there's that little midinette Who goes to work each morning daily; I choose to call her Blithe Babette, Because she's always humming gaily; And though the Goddess "Comme-il-faut" May look on her with prim expression, It's Pagan Paris where, you know, The queen of virtues is Discretion.
Robert William Service’s other poems:
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