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From “Latin Quarter Ways”
YES, she’s American—you’d hardly think it | |
| To see her order absinthe, sip and drink it, | |
| And rattle off French slang to her last lover— | |
| Sculptor, collegian or wealthy rover. | |
| Her countrymen? No, never. Once, they say, | 5 |
| She sang in church and taught and had a Day | |
| When maiden aunts dropped in—or, better, clambered up— | |
| For impecunious Blanche was always perched tip-top. | |
| She painted hard and won a Salon prize; | |
| Then—something happened. (Oh, her tell-tale eyes!) | 10 |
| The man went back, I think. No money, so—what use! | |
| And she as lovely as a fawn let loose | |
| In Fontainebleau—and with that infant’s face! | |
| Her age?—it’s hard to guess. Oh, yes—a studio-place, | |
| Terrors behind the screen, a divan and all that. | 15 |
| Goes out to tea, with the same picture-hat, | |
| At—blank—Grande Chaumiére, you know the number, | |
| Where certain rules the gaiety encumber. | |
| Jests of her griefs so gallantly! Yes, poor, in truth— | |
| So she’s a puzzle—is a Lure to Youth; | 20 |
| To men, can’t help herself. No niche at home— | |
| It must be Paris always, or roam and roam. | |
| Of course she’s sick of it—art’s not enough. | |
| We’ll say she’s lost her bearings … who would be rough | |
| In judging her!… She is so pretty still! | 25 |
| (Tiens, ma Blanche! Oh, Blanche, the glass will spill | |
| Between the two of you!) Like Willy’s Vagabonde | |
| She knows the Langue Verte—yes, “down to the ground.” | |
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| Is she selling her soul for a toy of small cost? | |
| Will she cry all night for the thing she has lost, | 30 |
| Infantine Blanche? | |
| Too many cups she has handled and wasted, | |
| Too many friendships played with and tasted! | |
| Puritan nomad, hither and thither, | |
| Child to the end—but in the end whither? | 35 |
| Tragic Blanche! | |
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