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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508675" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Absinthe Drinkers</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">He's yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix,<br>The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day.<br>He's sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair;<br>He's staring at the passers with his customary stare.<br>He never takes his piercing eyes from off that moving throng,<br>That current cosmopolitan meandering along:<br>Dark diplomats from Martinique, pale Rastas from Peru,<br>An Englishman from Bloomsbury, a Yank from Kalamazoo;<br>A poet from Montmartre's heights, a dapper little Jap,<br>Exotic citizens of all the countries on the map;<br>A tourist horde from every land that's underneath the sun --<br>That little wizened Spanish man, he misses never one.<br>Oh, foul or fair he's always there, and many a drink he buys,<br>And there's a fire of red desire within his hollow eyes.<br>And sipping of my Pernod, and a-knowing what I know,<br>Sometimes I want to shriek aloud and give away the show.<br>I've lost my nerve; he's haunting me; he's like a beast of prey,<br>That Spanish man that's watching at the Cafe de la Paix.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Say! Listen and I'll tell you all . . . the day was growing dim,<br>And I was with my Pernod at the table next to him;<br>And he was sitting soberly as if he were asleep,<br>When suddenly he seemed to tense, like tiger for a leap.<br>And then he swung around to me, his hand went to his hip,<br>My heart was beating like a gong -- my arm was in his grip;<br>His eyes were glaring into mine; aye, though I shrank with fear,<br>His fetid breath was on my face, his voice was in my ear:<br>"Excuse my brusquerie," he hissed; "but, sir, do you suppose --<br>That portly man who passed us had a wen upon his nose?"</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then at last it dawned on me, the fellow must be mad;<br>And when I soothingly replied: "I do not think he had,"<br>The little wizened Spanish man subsided in his chair,<br>And shrouded in his raven cloak resumed his owlish stare.<br>But when I tried to slip away he turned and glared at me,<br>And oh, that fishlike face of his was sinister to see:<br>"Forgive me if I startled you; of course you think I'm queer;<br>No doubt you wonder who I am, so solitary here;<br>You question why the passers-by I piercingly review . . .<br>Well, listen, my bibacious friend, I'll tell my tale to you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"It happened twenty years ago, and in another land:<br>A maiden young and beautiful, two suitors for her hand.<br>My rival was the lucky one; I vowed I would repay;<br>Revenge has mellowed in my heart, it's rotten ripe to-day.<br>My happy rival skipped away, vamoosed, he left no trace;<br>And so I'm waiting, waiting here to meet him face to face;<br>For has it not been ever said that all the world one day<br>Will pass in pilgrimage before the Cafe de la Paix?"</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"But, sir," I made remonstrance, "if it's twenty years ago,<br>You'd scarcely recognize him now, he must have altered so."<br>The little wizened Spanish man he laughed a hideous laugh,<br>And from his cloak he quickly drew a faded photograph.<br>"You're right," said he, "but there are traits (oh, this you must allow)<br>That never change; Lopez was fat, he must be fatter now.<br>His paunch is senatorial, he cannot see his toes,<br>I'm sure of it; and then, behold! that wen upon his nose.<br>I'm looking for a man like that. I'll wait and wait until . . ."<br>"What will you do?" I sharply cried; he answered me: "Why, kill!<br>He robbed me of my happiness -- nay, stranger, do not start;<br>I'll firmly and politely put -- a bullet in his heart."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then that little Spanish man, with big cigar alight,<br>Uprose and shook my trembling hand and vanished in the night.<br>And I went home and thought of him and had a dreadful dream<br>Of portly men with each a wen, and woke up with a scream.<br>And sure enough, next morning, as I prowled the Boulevard,<br>A portly man with wenny nose roamed into my regard;<br>Then like a flash I ran to him and clutched him by the arm:<br>"Oh, sir," said I, "I do not wish to see you come to harm;<br>But if your life you value aught, I beg, entreat and pray --<br>Don't pass before the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix."<br>That portly man he looked at me with such a startled air,<br>Then bolted like a rabbit down the rue Michaudière.<br>"Ha! ha! I've saved a life," I thought; and laughed in my relief,<br>And straightway joined the Spanish man o'er his apéritif.<br>And thus each day I dodged about and kept the strictest guard<br>For portly men with each a wen upon the Boulevard.<br>And then I hailed my Spanish pal, and sitting in the sun,<br>We ordered many Pernods and we drank them every one.<br>And sternly he would stare and stare until my hand would shake,<br>And grimly he would glare and glare until my heart would quake.<br>And I would say: "Alphonso, lad, I must expostulate;<br>Why keep alive for twenty years the furnace of your hate?<br>Perhaps his wedded life was hell; and you, at least, are free . . ."<br>"That's where you've got it wrong," he snarled; "the fool she took was me.<br>My rival sneaked, threw up the sponge, betrayed himself a churl:<br>'Twas he who got the happiness, I only got -- the girl."<br>With that he looked so devil-like he made me creep and shrink,<br>And there was nothing else to do but buy another drink.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now yonder like a blot of ink he sits across the way,<br>Upon the smiling terrace of the Cafe de la Paix;<br>That little wizened Spanish man, his face is ghastly white,<br>His eyes are staring, staring like a tiger's in the night.<br>I know within his evil heart the fires of hate are fanned,<br>I know his automatic's ready waiting to his hand.<br>I know a tragedy is near. I dread, I have no peace . . .<br>Oh, don't you think I ought to go and call upon the police?<br>Look there . . . he's rising up . . . my God!<br>He leaps from out his place . . .<br>Yon millionaire from Argentine . . . the two are face to face . . .<br>A shot! A shriek! A heavy fall! A huddled heap! Oh, see<br>The little wizened Spanish man is dancing in his glee. . . .<br>I'm sick . . . I'm faint . . . I'm going mad. . . .<br>Oh, please take me away . . .<br>There's BLOOD upon the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508675" data-title="The Absinthe Drinkers de Robert William Service" data-description="He's yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix, The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day. He's sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair; He's staring at the passers with his customary stare. He never takes his piercing eyes fr..."></div> </div> </div>
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