Parisian Dry-Points

HE sits established underneath his awning
Before the lighted window, like a Buddha
Snugly enshrined within a jeweled casket.

His narrow eyes and grinning parchment visage
Proclaim him of the race Antipodal
Who make the most of Buddhas, and to all
Your courteous inquiries he makes answer
In French of Ti-en-Tsin: ‘I am of China.’

Perhaps the seed of emperors, and come
To learn the mysteries of government,
He will return to take the helm of empire,
A pregnant orator, — at least a statesman.

But though you ply him with a thousand questions,
And though he shows no sign of failing patience
But ever seems most eager to oblige you,
You get no further in your quest of knowledge,
And must digest one statement comprehensive
In oriental French: ’I am of China.’
You think you might have known that without asking.

ONE who has languished in Siberian prisons
And mined for golden learning in Toulouse,
For marketing perchance in Buenos Ayres,
Now takes his summer ease in idle Paris
With comrades of the hospitable Quarter,
Who rise at noon, and dine not long ere daybreak
Under the care of Maurice at the Steinbach.

On no man’s forehead can you read his fate,
So intervolved is circumstance, but here
Is written out so much of one man’s nature,
Frank loving-kindness and good-fellowship.

And by his words you learn that he has pondered
The lore of books and puzzling map of life. For while the women, with their pocket-mirrors
And powder-puffs and napkins, make an effort
To freshen up their tarnished visages,
And Maurice dodges featly here and there
With steaming platters and with pleasantries,
And while the dancers thread the crowded tables,
Sluggishly whirling like the muddy current

Among the weedy rocks of some back-water,
And the card-players go on undiverted,
This Russian youth holds grave and steady converse
Of Marx and Plato, Washington and Ruskin,
Of government and misery and crime,
Humanity, and of the Golden Age.