Mardi And a Voyage Thither II

CHAPTER XXXII

MY LORD MEDIA SUMMONS MOHI TO THE STAND

While slowly the night wore on, and the now scudding clouds flown past, revealed again the hosts in heaven, few words were uttered save by Media; who, when all others were most sad and silent, seemed but little moved, or not stirred a jot.

But that night, he filled his flagon fuller than his wont, and drank, and drank, and pledged the stars.

“Here’s to thee, old Arcturus! To thee, old Aldebaran! who ever poise your wine-red, fiery spheres on high. A health to thee, my regal friend, Alphacca, in the constellation of the Crown: Lo! crown to crown, I pledge thee! I drink to ye, too, Alphard! Markab! Denebola! Capella! – to ye, too, sailing Cygnus! Aquila soaring! – All round, a health to all your diadems! May they never fade! nor mine!”

At last, in the shadowy east, the Dawn, like a gray, distant sail before the wind, was descried; drawing nearer and nearer, till her gilded prow was perceived.

And as in tropic gales, the winds blow fierce, and more fierce, with the advent of the sun; so with King Media; whose mirth now breezed up afresh. But, as at sunrise, the sea-storm only blows harder, to settle down at last into a steady wind;

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even so, in good time, my lord Media came to be more decorous of mood. And Babbalanja abated his reveries.

For who might withstand such a morn!

As on the night-banks of the far-rolling Ganges, the royal bridegroom sets forth for his bride, preceded by nymphs, now this side, now that, lighting up all the flowery flambeaux held on high as they pass; so came the Sun, to his nuptials with Mardi: – the Hours going on before, touching all the peaks, till they glowed rosy-red.

By reflex, the lagoon, here and there, seemed on fire; each curling wave-crest a flame.

Noon came as we sailed.

And now, citrons and bananas, cups and calabashes, calumets and tobacco, were passed round; and we were all very merry and mellow indeed. Smacking our lips, chatting, smoking, and sipping. Now a mouthful of citron to season a repartee; now a swallow of wine to wash down a precept; now a fragrant whiff to puff away care. Many things did beguile. From side to side, we turned and grazed, like Juno’s white oxen in clover meads.

Soon, we drew nigh to a charming cliff, overrun with woodbines, on high suspended from flowering Tamarisk and Tam- arind-trees. The blossoms of the Tamarisks, in spikes of small, red bells; the Tamarinds, wide-spreading their golden petals, red-streaked as with streaks of the dawn. Down sweeping to the water, the vines trailed over to the crisp, curling waves – little pages, all eager to hold up their trains.

Within, was a bower; going behind it, like standing inside the sheet of the falls of the Genesee.

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In this arbor we anchored. And with their shaded prows thrust in among the flowers, our three canoes seemed baiting by the way, like wearied steeds in a hawthorn lane.

High midsummer noon is more silent than night. Most sweet a siesta then. And noon dreams are day-dreams indeed; born under the meridian sun. Pale Cynthia begets pale specter shapes; and her frigid rays best illuminate white nuns, marble monuments, icy glaciers, and cold tombs.

The sun rolled on. And starting to his feet, arms clasped, and wildly staring, Yoomy exclaimed – “Nay, nay, thou shalt not depart, thou maid! – here, here I fold thee for aye! – Flown? – A dream! Then siestas henceforth while I live. And at noon, every day will I meet thee, sweet maid! And, oh Sun! set not; and poppies bend over us, when next we embrace!”

“What ails that somnambulist?” cried Media, rising. “Yoomy, I say! what ails thee?”

“He must have indulged over freely in those citrons,” said Mohi, sympathetically rubbing his fruitery. “Ho, Yoomy! a swallow of brine will help thee.”

“Alas,” cried Babbalanja, “do the fairies then wait on repletion? Do our dreams come from below, and not from the skies? Are we angels, or dogs? Oh, Man, Man, Man! thou art harder to solve, than the Integral Calculus – yet plain as a primer; harder to find than the philosopher’s-stone – yet ever at hand; a more cunning compound, than an alchemist’s – yet a hundred weight of flesh, to a penny weight of spirit; soul and body glued together, firm as atom to atom, seamless as the vestment without joint, warp or woof – yet divided as by a river, spirit

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from flesh; growing both ways, like a tree, and dropping thy topmost branches to earth, like thy beard or a banian! – I give thee up, oh Man! thou art twain – yet indivisible; all things – yet a poor unit at best.”

“Philosopher you seem puzzled to account for the riddles of your race,” cried Media, sideways reclining at his ease. “Now, do thou, old Mohi, stand up before a demi-god, and answer for all. – Draw nigh, so I can eye thee. What art thou, mortal?”

“My worshipful lord, a man.” “And what are men?”

“My lord, before thee is a specimen.”

“I fear me, my lord will get nothing out of that witness,” said Babbalanja. “Pray you, King Media, let another inquisitor cross-question.”

“Proceed; take the divan.”

“A pace or two farther off, there, Mohi; so I can garner thee all in at a glance. – Attention! Rememberest thou, fellow-be- ing, when thou wast born?”

“Not I. Old Braid–Beard had no memory then.” “When, then, wast thou first conscious of being?”

“What time I was teething: my first sensation was an ache.” “What dost thou, fellow-being, here in Mardi?”

“What doth MardI here, fellow-being, under me?” “Philosopher, thou gainest but little by thy questions,”

cried Yoomy advancing. “Let a poet endeavor.”

“I abdicate in your favor, then, gentle Yoomy; let me smooth the divan for you; – there: be seated.”

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CHAPTER XXXIII

WHEREIN BABBALANJA

AND YOOMY EMBRACE

“How the isles grow and multiply around us!” cried Babbalanja, as turning the bold promontory of an uninhabited shore, many distant lands bluely loomed into view. “Surely, our brief voyage, may not embrace all MardI like its reef?”

“No,” said Media, “much must be left unseen. Nor every where can Yillah be sought, noble Taji.”

Said Yoomy, “We are as birds, with pinions clipped, that in unfathomable and endless woods, but flit from twig to twig of one poor tree.”

“More isles! more isles!” cried Babbalanja, erect, and gazing abroad. “And lo! round all is heaving that infinite ocean. Ah! gods! what regions lie beyond?”

“But whither now?” he cried, as in obedience to Media, the paddlers suddenly altered our course.

“To the bold shores of Diranda,” said Media.

“Ay; the land of clubs and javelins, where the lord seigniors Hello and Piko celebrate their famous games,” cried Mohi.

“Your clubs and javelins,” said Media, “remind me of the great battle-chant of Narvi – Yoomy!” – turning to the minstrel, gazing abstractedly into the water; – “awake, Yoomy, and give us the lines.”

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“My lord Media, ’tis but a rude, clanging thing; dissonant as if the north wind blew through it. Methinks the company will not fancy lines so inharmonious. Better sing you, perhaps, one of my sonnets.”

“Better sit and sob in our ears, silly Yoomy that thou art! – no! no! none of your sentiment now; my soul is martially inclined; I want clarion peals, not lute warblings. So throw out your chest, Yoomy: lift high your voice; and blow me the old battle-blast. – Begin, sir minstrel.”

And warning all, that he himself had not composed the odious chant, Yoomy thus: –

Our clubs! our clubs!

The thousand clubs of Narvi!

Of the living trunk of the Palm-tree made; Skull breakers! Brain spatterers!

Wielded right, and wielded left; Life quenchers! Death dealers! Causing live bodies to run headless! Our bows! our bows!

The thousand bows of Narvi! Ribs of Tara, god of War!

Fashioned from the light Tola their arrows; Swift messengers! Heart piercers!

Barbed with sharp pearl shells; Winged with white tail-plumes;

To wild death-chants, strung with the hair of wild maidens! Our spears! our spears!

The thousand spears of Narvi!

Of the thunder-riven Moo-tree made

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Tall tree, couched on the long mountain Lana! No staves for gray-beards! no rods for fishermen! Tempered by fierce sea-winds,

Splintered into lances by lightnings, Long arrows! Heart seekers!

Toughened by fire their sharp black points! Our slings! our slings!

The thousand slings of Narvi!

All tasseled, and braided, and gayly bedecked. In peace, our girdles; in war, our war-nets;

Wherewith catch we heads as fish from the deep! The pebbles they hurl, have been hurled before – Hurled up on the beach by the stormy sea! Pebbles, buried erewhile in the head of the shark: To be buried erelong in the heads of our foes! Home of hard blows, our pouches!

Nest of death-eggs! How quickly they hatch! Uplift, and couch we our spears, men!

Ring hollow on the rocks our war clubs!

Bend we our bows, feel the points of our arrows: Aloft, whirl in eddies our sling-nets;

To the fight, men of Narvi! Sons of battle! Hunters of men! Raise high your war-wood!

Shout Narvi! her groves in the storm!

“By Oro!” cried Media, “but Yoomy has well nigh stirred up all Babbalanja’s devils in me. Were I a mortal, I could fight now on a pretense. And did any man say me nay, I would charge upon him like a spear-point. Ah, Yoomy, thou and thy tribe

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have much to answer for; ye stir up all MardI with your lays. Your war chants make men fight; your drinking songs, drunkards; your love ditties, fools. Yet there thou sittest, Yoomy, gentle as a dove. – What art thou, minstrel, that thy soft, singing soul should so master all mortals? Yoomy, like me, you sway a scepter.”

“Thou honorest my calling overmuch,” said Yoomy, we minstrels but sing our lays carelessly, my lord Media.”

“Ay: and the more mischief they make.” “But sometimes we poets are didactic.”

“Didactic and dull; many of ye are but too apt to be prosy unless mischievous.”

“Yet in our verses, my lord Media, but few of us purpose harm.”

“But when all harmless to yourselves, ye may be otherwise to Mardi.”

“And are not foul streams often traced to pure fountains, my lord?” said Babbalanja. “The essence of all good and all evil is in us, not out of us. Neither poison nor honey lodgeth in the flowers on which, side by side, bees and wasps oft alight. My lord, nature is an immaculate virgin, forever standing unrobed before us. True poets but paint the charms which all eyes behold. The vicious would be vicious without them.”

“My lord Media,” impetuously resumed Yoomy, “I am sensible of a thousand sweet, merry fancies, limpid with innocence; yet my enemies account them all lewd conceits.”

“There be those in Mardi,” said Babbalanja, “who would never ascribe evil to others, did they not find it in their own hearts; believing none can be different from themselves.”

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