---

Robert W Service - Room 4: The Painter Chap
Work rating: Low

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.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.