You will never find native Bohemians in Bohemia. That kingdom is an invention of those aliens who dream of it, and who then, occasionally, visit the land of their heart's desire. They make the laws of Bohemia, too, and you would be surprised to see how different they are from any thing known among the staid and the commonplace.
In our Bohemia, my friend and I were seated sipping tea, which is a Bohemian beverage. The subject of our conversation was, of course, Bohemian news: the latest play, the art exhibit, the newest poet and the freshest book. As we held our third glass—tea is served Bohemians in glasses— my friend raised his head and accosted a young man who had just entered. He had all the appearance of a native. He was a slim, spare young man, with jet black hair. His deep-set eyes were shadowed by glasses. He wore a wrinkled overcoat and a turned- down collar, with a flowing, black necktie. His shoulders twitched, as if he were anxious to hold himself erect.
He returned my friend's salute and, without introduction or invitation, seated himself at our table. They do such things in Bohemia, and it is rudeness to take offense. Ordering a glass of tea, and running his hand through his long hair, he broke into our conversation with:
"Say! I've got one of the finest ideas for a play you have ever heard. It's great, even now while not so clear in my own mind. Some one's got to hear it!....Listen!"
Being a polished Bohemian gentleman, my friend was not taken aback but said, carelessly, "Let's have it then. Fire away, Dahlman!"
He would have fired away even if we had not given him permission. His eyes gleamed with excitement. His fingers
pinched the cigarette he was smoking. He seemed to grow larger the more enthusiastic he became. He pressed both elbows on the table.
"It sticks at a one-act play for the lastfew days. I havn't told any one. If Ihad, that might have focussed it one way oranother. And yet, it's wedged in my mind,fixed there, as a play, and it won't budge.You don't know in what forms I have imagined it. I have thought of it as a shortstory. a poem, an allegory, a declamation,but it persists as a play, so I give up,\u2014a playit must be....
"I want you to imagine—you've got imaginations; you fellows always have—a medium-sized stage set to picture a garret, one of your old-fashioned garrets. You've read of them in French storie: garrets where students have their ideals knocked out of them: where both unconventionality and poverty rule good-naturedly: where misery is endured for the sake of some ideal, whatever it may be, music, art, drama, poetry—just as you please. Its walls are bare, except for a few panels, pictures, old clothes, old easels piled up in one corner. There's a couch, too, a table with a candle on it, a bookcase, etc. etc. The ceiling comes down near the floor in the rear. to give the stage illusion of a low-ceilinged garret and not to destroy the perspective for the audience. In the ceiling you see a sky-light, through it spires of a church, the roofs of buildings—the city in silhouette. That's the stage setting, all in drab....
“A young man comes upon the stage. He drags himself wearily across and stumbles into a chair. The weather outdoors is wretched. It is raining. You will hear the patter on the sky-light. He is an art-student, but why an art-student, only the God who made him knows. Before he came to Paris he had a longing for some ideal, mysterious-