Bohemia Village Voice

“Let’s try it in the minor … it has to depict the sorrow of a young maiden picking a daisy’s petal against a blue lake. A ripe, respectably aged notion, to be sure. Well, if it’s the fashion, and if there isn’t an editor who’d dare to publish a song without a blue lake, one must conform … do, sol, mi, do, la, si, do, re – I’m not displeased with that, it conveys the idea of a daisy quite well; especially to people who aren’t strong on botany. La, si, do, re – confound you, re, you scoundrel! Now, let’s make the listener aware of the blue lake: something damp, azure, moonlit – there’s a moon in it too. Hi, it’s coming – remember the swan – fa, mi, la, sol.” Schaunard rippled the crystalline notes of the treble octave. “Now we have the young maiden’s farewell. She’s decided to throw herself into the blue lake – to rejoin her beloved, who’s buried beneath the snow. A rather obscure end to the story, but interesting … something tender, melancholy – it’s coming! – that’s a dozen bars, sobbing like Magdalens! Chops at your heart strings … brr, brr …” Schaunard shuddered inside his spangled gown. “If only it would chop some wood! There’s a rafter over there in the alcove that’s a great nuisance when I have company – to dinner I mean. I could make a nice little blaze … la, la … re, mi … for I’ve a strong feeling that inspiration is descending upon me swaddled beneath a cold in the head. Ah, no matter … let’s get on with drowning my young maiden.”

      Schaunard’s fingers kept on tormenting the throbbing keyboard. With a light in his eye and with ears pricked up he pursued his melody, which fluttered like an elusive nymph through the sonorous fog with which the vibrations of the instrument seemed to permeate the room.

      “Now let’s see how my music hangs together with the words of my poet.” In a harsh, unpleasing voice Schaunard hummed through his nose the following fragment of the kind of poetry that is specially used for light operas and popular ballads:

The golden-haired young maiden

                Upturns a troubled glance

                While stripping off her mantle,

                Towards the sky’s expanse;

                And in the azure waters

                Of the lake’s silv’ry waves …

To be continued …

[Vie de Bohème by Henry Mürger, a vivid portrait of the ‘Bohemian’ life of the artistic quarter of Paris in the nineteenth century was originally published (by Michel Lévy) in 1851. The extract above is taken from a translation by Norman Cameron, published by Hamish Hamilton. The illustration is by Dodi Masterman.]