The National tribune. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1877-1917, 1893-04-06

=: ! !; !: :: !:
psychological moment.
Bohemia ia London is
q place you may lose yourself in, as many
others have done. never to be heard of again.
Paris has ali the gamut of Bohemia at It's
fingers ends, but there is nowhere, l think.
moro cheerful resort than the Cafe Peterhof.
It is situate in an old-fashioned part of the
town that America loves best and is as quiet
place as YOU can find in this great beehive.
1t is not conspicuous. There are no gaudy
signs or flashing doors to herald to the
world that Bohemia reigns within, as IL Goes
almost every evening. Bohemia is much like
love, as Bourgeois opinion has 1T: Itn va pas
ddmOHr, ila'y que DIES dmGRfs. There is no
such place as Bohemia; there are only Bohe-
mians. Wherever these are, there is Bohemia.
To the Cafe Peterhof came, when the day
began TO die and night to fade into morning
curious motley of men. There were writers
from the great dailies, whose presses would soon
thunder out the days news to the world !;
artists from the studios and the illustrated
papers; writers who came close TO the French
conception of the fcaeur in their entire versa
tility in writing either paragraph Tor society
paper, a poem for a magazine, or Christmas
story for the juvenile papers; an actor OF two
ard very occasional visitor. The little pri-
waite room where We smoked and slipped our
beer, aud chatted of work done or doing. was
in some sort a sauctum, and the unnitated
were not admitted. If you could prove that
Bohemia owned you, then perhaps.
The door opened one evening, and through
the mist of the smoke stalked tall. slight
man, with face ciean-shaven and hands long
and tapering. The mouth was delicate, almost
feminine.
L. L. E,~~ n,,1c fy<ad r,la
ant greeting TO US all, as if he had been away
for a moment only, instead of for-six months,
they said it was
donald Blenheim. as live" said the man
OF my side; now. where on earth has he been
again? 2"
From which gathered that Blenhsim had
O habit of disappearing at odd moments. But
at that instant the man began to speak.
never heard so musical voice before coming
from man, and i suppose / never shall again.
Moreover lac had adeliciously clear articulation,
and an accent whose angicism was so soft as 10
be only delightful. He, il ever a man had, had
many excuses for soliloqDsing.
81 see" he began, that you are wondering
where have been. 1t is no use; / shall not
tell you. / have been away. out of town; al
ways in Bohemia, remember, but wbere-no
matter. i have come back TO write my novel.
1t has been fermenting in my brain; l cannot
rest for thinking of it; itch to pour out the
romance that fills my being. 1t will, think,
be the great American novel;"
he took deep draught from the mug in
front of him and went on.
The style shall be a blending of the realistic
and the romantic, but the SUI ject shall be alto
gether romantic. OF course there will be love.
But. oh such love, my friends. es has never
been written of before. A love that shall trans
cend all wit, And there shall be a woman in
the story with whom everyone, even the wo-
men, shall fall in love. ! shall put my whole
soul into that story. All my life, my art, my
skill-it shall all be dissolved into this won-
derful story. 1 come here now to see you all
once more before / shut myself up with the
story" he spoke as il it were an animate
being. ] was amazed &C the mans splendid
egotism and confidence. Surely. thought. q
force like that can make others believe in him
also But the others only smiled. One of
them spoke at last: And in the meanwhile
Donald 2"
The novelist Of the future frowaed slightly
DO not vex either your soul or mine with
idle questioning" he said "the Goddess. you
know, loves a garrett aud i dare say ] shall
learn 10 love it too Besides never brood over
the future. j always have hopes there, and
they light me on my path gladly"
He emptied his beer mug. waved his hand
csrelessly to the company, aud was gone
through the mist of smoke again.
ia my head there still fingered that musical
voice of his.
The others were looking at one another aud
laughing, where before they had only smiled
eovertly.
What was il the last timer" asked Savage,
who does the club gossip for the Chronicle.
=" A play. / think. " came from out the smoke.
Before that it was epic"
remember Blenhem five years ago." said
Savage He was just the enthusiastic dreamer
that he is now. de confided to me once that
be going to write wonderful book oil
essays, wiiticisms, and impressions. 1t was to
be more audaeious than George Moores Con.
fessons of Young Man. and it was to gain
all the fame of Murger's Scenes de la Vie de
Boheme' He was going TO recount all his ex
periences-certainly interesting cnough-as 9
writer. But the book never appeared"
When Blenheim was art critic for the late
lsmeDted Weekly" came another voice from
the smoke, d" ne evolved the idea of writing o
volume OF prose poems, like those bits of pastel
work that the French delight in. Over thi.
project he dreamed so much that his copy fol
the late lamented suffered grievously in quail
ity and quantity. ltturned out the usual way
The late lamented dispensed with his services
enc fine day"
And the prose poems never appesredf"
Never, But these are old stories. Blen
helm is a genius, in his way. j think b,
dreams more beautiful things than anyone bal
ever written"
one read that new story of Dick Dayis's?"
And the talk drifted on and away from Don
aid Blenheim.
Perhaps, after what knew, IL may seem
strange thing that became one of Donald Blen
helms most intimate friends. But his was
temperament SO volatile, so mercurial, so sensi
bic to all the sip fest I'M iuence of things phys