48. CHAPTER XLVIII.
THEY SAIL ROUND AN ISLAND WITHOUT LANDING; AND TALK
ROUND A SUBJECT WITHOUT GETTING AT IT.
Purposing a visit to Kaleedoni, a country integrally
united to Dominora, our course now lay northward along
the western white cliffs of the isle. But finding the wind
ahead, and the current too strong for our paddlers, we were
fain to forego our destination; Babbalanja observing, that
since in Dominora we had not found Yillah, then in Kaleedoni
the maiden could not be lurking.
And now, some conversation ensued concerning the country
we were prevented from visiting. Our chronicler narrated
many fine things of its people; extolling their bravery in
war, their amiability in peace, their devotion in religion,
their penetration in philosophy, their simplicity and sweetness
in song, their loving-kindness and frugality in all things
domestic:—running over a long catalogue of heroes, metaphysicians,
bards, and good men.
But as all virtues are convertible into vices, so in some
cases did the best traits of these people degenerate. Their
frugality too often became parsimony; their devotion grim
bigotry; and all this in a greater degree perhaps than could
be predicated of the more immediate subjects of King Bello.
In Kaleedoni was much to awaken the fervor of its bards.
Upland and lowland were full of the picturesque; and many
unsung lyrics yet lurked in her glens. Among her blue,
heathy hills, lingered many tribes, who in their wild and
tattooed attire, still preserved the garb of the mightiest
nation of old times. They bared the knee, in token that it
was honorable as the face, since it had never been bent.
While Braid-Beard was recounting these things, the currents
were sweeping us over a strait, toward a deep green
island, bewitching to behold.
Not greener that midmost terrace of the Andes, which
under a torrid meridian steeps fair Quito in the dews of a
perpetual spring;—not greener the nine thousand feet of
Pirohitee's tall peak, which, rising from out the warm bosom
of Tahiti, carries all summer with it into the clouds;—nay,
not greener the famed gardens of Cyrus,—than the vernal
lawn, the knoll, the dale of beautiful Verdanna.
“Alas, sweet isle! Thy desolation is overrun with
vines,” sighed Yoomy, gazing.
“Land of caitiff curs!” cried Media.
“Isle, whose future is in its past. Hearth-stone, from
which its children run,” said Babbalanja.
“I can not read thy chronicles for blood, Verdanna,”
murmured Mohi.
Gliding near, we would have landed, but the rolling surf
forbade. Then thrice we circumnavigated the isle for a
smooth, clear beach; but it was not found.
Meanwhile all still conversed.
“My lord,” said Yoomy, “while we tarried with King
Bello, I heard much of the feud between Dominora and this
unhappy shore. Yet is not Verdanna as a child of King
Bello's?”
“Yes, minstrel, a step-child,” said Mohi.
“By way of enlarging his family circle,” said Babbalanja,
“an old lion once introduced a deserted young stag to his
den; but the stag never became domesticated, and would
still charge upon his foster-brothers.—Verdanna is not of
the flesh and blood of Dominora, whence, in good part, these
dissensions.”
“But Babbalanja, is there no way of reconciling these
foes?”
“But one way, Yoomy:—By filling up this strait with
dry land; for, divided by water, we Mardians must ever
remain more or less divided at heart. Though Kaleedoni
was united to Dominora long previous to the union of
Verdanna, yet Kaleedoni occasions Bello no disquiet; for,
geographically one, the two populations insensibly blend at
the point of junction. No hostile strait flows between the
arms, that to embrace must touch.”
“But, Babbalanja,” said Yoomy, “what asks Verdanna
of Dominora, that Verdanna so clamors at the denial?”
“They are arrant cannibals, Yoomy,” said Media, “and
desire the privilege of eating each other up.”
“King Bello's idea,” said Babbalanja; “but, in these
things, my lord, you demi-gods are ever unanimous. But,
whatever be Verdanna's demands, Bello persists in rejecting
them.”
“Why not grant every thing she asks, even to renouncing
all claim upon the isle,” said Mohi; “for thus, Bello would
rid himself of many perplexities.”
“And think you, old man,” said Media, “that, bane or
blessing, Bello will yield his birthright? Will a tri-crowned
king resign his triple diadem? And even did Bello what
you propose, he would only breed still greater perplexities.
For if granted, full soon would Verdanna be glad to surrender
many things she demands. And all she now asks,
she has had in times past; but without turning it to advantage:—and
is she wiser now?”
“Does she not demand her harvests, my lord?” said
Yoomy, “and has not the reaper a right to his sheaf?”
“Cant! cant! Yoomy. If you reap for me, the sheaf
is mine.”
“But if the reaper reaps on his own harvest-field, whose
then the sheaf, my lord?” said Babbalanja.
“His for whom he reaps—his lord's!”
“Then let the reaper go with sickle and with sword,”
said Yoomy, “with one hand, cut down the bearded grain;
and with the other, smite his bearded lords.”
“Thou growest fierce, in thy lyric moods, my warlike
dove,” said Media, blandly. “But for thee, philosopher,
know thou, that Verdanna's men are of blood and brain
inferior to Bello's native race; and the better Mardian
must ever rule.”
“Verdanna inferior to Dominora, my lord!—Has she
produced no bards, no orators, no wits, no patriots? Mohi,
unroll thy chronicles! Tell me, if Verdanna may not claim
full many a star along King Bello's tattooed arm of Fame?”
“Even so,” said Mohi. “Many chapters bear you
out.”
“But my lord,” said Babbalanja, “as truth, omnipresent,
lurks in all things, even in lies: so, does some germ of it
lurk in the calumnies heaped on the people of this land.
For though they justly boast of many lustrous names, these
jewels gem no splendid robe. And though like a bower of
grapes, Verdanna is full of gushing juices, spouting out in
bright sallies of wit, yet not all her grapes make wine; and
here and there, hang goodly clusters mildewed; or half devoured
by worms, bred in their own tendrils.”
“Drop, drop your grapes and metaphors!” cried Media.
“Bring forth your thoughts like men; let them come
naked into Mardi.—What do you mean, Babbalanja?”
“This, my lord, Verdanna's worst evils are her own, not
of another's giving. Her own hand is her own undoer.
She stabs herself with bigotry, superstition, divided councils,
domestic feuds, ignorance, temerity; she wills, but does not;
her East is one black storm-cloud, that never bursts; her
utmost fight is a defiance; she showers reproaches, where
she should rain down blows. She stands a mastiff baying
at the moon.”
“Tropes on tropes!” said Media. “Let me tell the
tale,—straight-forward like a line. Verdanna is a lunatic—”
“A trope! my lord,” cried Babbalanja.
“My tropes are not tropes,” said Media, “but yours are.
—Verdanna is a lunatic, that after vainly striving to cut
another's throat, grimaces before a standing pool and threatens
to cut his own. And is such a madman to be intrusted
with himself? No; let another govern him, who is ungovernable
to himself. Ay, and tight hold the rein; and
curb, and rasp the bit. Do I exaggerate?—Mohi, tell me,
if, save one lucid interval, Verdanna, while independent of
Dominora, ever discreetly conducted her affairs? Was she
not always full of fights and factions? And what first
brought her under the sway of Bello's scepter? Did not
her own Chief Dermoddi fly to Bello's ancestor for protection
against his own seditious subjects? And thereby did not
her own king unking himself? What wonder, then, and
where the wrong, if Henro, Bello's conquering sire, seized
the diadem?”
“What my lord cites is true,” said Mohi, “but cite no
more, I pray; lest, you harm your cause.”
“Yet for all this, Babbalanja,” said Media, “Bello but
holds lunatic Verdanna's lands in trust.”
“And may the guardian of an estate also hold custody
of the ward, my lord?”
“Ay, if he can. What can be done, may be: that's the
creed of demi-gods.”
“Alas, alas!” cried Yoomy, “why war with words over
this poor, suffering land. See! for all her bloom, her people
starve; perish her yams, ere taken from the soil; the
blight of heaven seems upon them.”
“Not so,” said Media. “Heaven sends no blights.
Verdanna will not learn. And if from one season's rottenness,
rottenness they sow again, rottenness must they reap.
But Yoomy, you seem earnest in this matter;—come: on all
hands it is granted that evils exist in Verdanna; now sweet
sympathizer, what must the royal Bello do to mend them?”
“I am no sage,” said Yoomy, “what would my lord
Media do?”
“What would you do, Babbalanja,” said Media.
“Mohi, what you?” asked the philosopher.
“And what would the company do?” added Mohi.
“Now, though these evils pose us all,” said Babbalanja,
“there lately died in Verdanna, one, who set about curing
them in a humane and peaceable way, waving war and
bloodshed. That man was Konno. Under a huge caldron,
he kept a roaring fire.”
“Well, Azzageddi, how could that answer his purpose?”
asked Media.
“Nothing better, my lord. His fire boiled his bread-fruit;
and so convinced were his countrymen, that he was well
employed, that they almost stripped their scanty orchards to
fill his caldron.”
“Konno was a knave,” said Mohi.
“Your pardon, old man, but that is only known to his
ghost, not to us. At any rate he was a great man; for
even assuming he cajoled his country, no common man could
have done it.”
“Babbalanja,” said Mohi, “my lord has been pleased to
pronounce Verdanna crazy; now, may not her craziness
arise from the irritating, tantalizing practices of Dominora?”
“Doubtless, Braid-Beard, many of the extravagances of
Verdanna, are in good part to be ascribed to the cause you
mention; but, to be impartial, none the less does Verdanna
essay to taunt and provoke Dominora; yet not with the like
result. Perceive you, Braid-Beard, that the trade-wind
blows dead across this strait from Dominora, and not from
Verdanna? Hence, when King Bello's men fling gibes
and insults, every missile hits; but those of Verdanna are
blown back in its teeth: her enemies jeering her again and
again.”
“King Bello's men are dastards for that,” cried Yoomy.
“It shows neither sense, nor spirit, nor humanity,” said
Babbalanja.
“All wide of the mark,” cried Media. “What is to be
done for Verdanna?”
“What will she do for herself?” said Babbalanja.
“Philosopher, you are an extraordinary sage; and since
sages should be seers, reveal Verdanna's future.”
“My lord, you will ever find true prophets, prudent;
nor will any prophet risk his reputation upon predicting
aught concerning this land. The isles are Oro's. Nevertheless,
he who doctors Verdanna aright, will first medicine
King Bello; who in some things is, himself a patient, though
he would fain be a physician. However, my lord, there is
a demon of a doctor in Mardi, who at last deals with these
desperate cases. He employs only pills, picked off the Conroupta
Quiancensis tree.”
“And what sort of a vegetable is that?” asked Mohi.
“Consult the botanists,” said Babbalanja.
