be persuaded; never mind about believing.”
“True, my lord; not very hard; no act is required; only passiveness. Stand still and receive. Faith is to the thoughtless, doubts to the thinker.”
“Then, why think at all? Is it not better for you mortals to clutch error as in a vice, than have your fingers meet in your hand? And to what end your eternal inquisitions? You have nothing to substitute. You say all is a lie; then out with the truth. Philosopher, your devil is but a foolish one, after all. I, a demi-god, never say nay to these things.”
“Yea, my lord, it would hardly answer for Oro himself, were he to come down to Mardi, to deny men’s theories concerning him. Did they not strike at the rash deity in Alma?”
“Then, why deny those theories yourself? Babbalanja, you almost affect my immortal serenity. Must you forever be a sieve for good grain to run through, while you retain but the chaff? Your tongue is forked. You speak two languages: flat folly for yourself, and wisdom for others. Babbalanja, if you have any belief of your own, keep it; but, in Oro’s name, keep it secret.”
“Ay, my lord, in these things wise men are spectators, not actors; wise men look on, and say ‘ay.’”
“Why not say so yourself, then?”
“My lord, because I have often told you, that I am a fool, and not wise.”
“Your Highness,” said Mohi, “this whole discourse seems to have grown out of the subject of Necessity and Free Will. Now, when a boy, I recollect hearing a sage say, that these things were reconcilable.”
“Ay?” said Media, “what say you to that, now, Babbalanja?”
“It may be even so, my lord. Shall I tell you a story?”
“Azzageddi’s stirring now,” muttered Mohi.
“Proceed,” said Media.
“King Normo had a fool, called Willi, whom he loved to humor. Now, though Willi ever obeyed his lord, by the very instinct of his servitude, he flattered himself that he was free; and this conceit it was, that made the fool so entertaining to the king. One day, said Normo to his fool — ‘Go, Willi, to yonder tree, and wait there till I come,’ ‘Your Majesty, I will,’ said Willi, bowing beneath his jingling bells; ‘but I presume your Majesty has no objections to my walking on my hands:— I am free, I hope.’ ‘Perfectly,’ said Normo, ‘hands or feet, it’s all the same to me; only do my bidding.’ ‘I thought as much,’ said Willi; so, swinging his limber legs into the air, Willi, thumb after thumb, essayed progression. But soon, his bottled blood so rushed downward through his neck, that he was fain to turn a somerset and regain his feet. Said he, ‘Though I am free to do it, it’s not so easy turning digits into toes; I’ll walk, by gad! which is my other option.’ So he went straight forward, and did King Normo’s bidding in the natural way.”
“A curious story that,” said Media; “whence came it?”
“My lord, where every thing, but one, is to be had:— within.”
“You are charged to the muzzle, then,” said Braid–Beard. “Yes, Mohi; and my talk is my overflowing, not my fullness.”
“And what may you be so full of?”
“Of myself.”
“So it seems,” said Mohi, whisking away a fly with his beard.
“Babbalanja,” said Media, “you did right in selecting this ebon night for discussing the theme you did; and truly, you mortals are but too apt to talk in the dark.”
“Ay, my lord, and we mortals may prate still more in the dark, when we are dead; for methinks, that if we then prate at all, ’twill be in our sleep. Ah! my lord, think not that in aught I’ve said this night, I would assert any wisdom of my own. I but fight against the armed and crested Lies of Mardi, that like a host, assail me. I am stuck full of darts; but, tearing them from out me, gasping, I discharge them whence they come.”
So saying, Babbalanja slowly drooped, and fell reclining; then lay motionless as the marble Gladiator, that for centuries has been dying.
CHAPTER 32
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; 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 Tamarind-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.
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
