Georgian Poetry 1911-1912 Part 2

Thomas: Not I.

Was the man killed?

Captain: He lived a little while; But the flies killed him.

Thomas: Flies? I hope India Is not a fly-plagued land? I abhor flies.

Captain: You will see strange ones, for our Indian life Hath wonderful fierce breeding. Common earth With us quickens to buzzing flights of wings As readily as a week-old carcase here Thrown in a sunny marsh. Why, we have wasps That make your hornets seem like pretty midges; And there be flies in India will drink Not only blood of bulls, tigers, and bears, But pierce the river-horses' creasy leather, Ay, worry crocodiles through their cuira.s.ses And p.r.i.c.k the metal fishes when they bask.

You'll feel them soon, with beaks like st.u.r.dy pins, Treating their stinging thirsts with your best blood.

A man can't walk a mile in India Without being the business of a throng'd And moving town of flies; they hawk at a man As bold as little eagles, and as wild.

And, I suppose, only a fool will blame them.

Flies have the right to sink wells in our skin All as men to bore parcht earth for water.

But I must do a job on board, and then Search the town afresh for a carpenter.

Thomas: (alone) Ay, loose tongue, I know how thou art prompted.

Satan's cunning device thou art, to sap My heart with chatter'd fears. How easy it is For a stiff mind to hold itself upright Against the cords of devilish suggestion Tackled about it, though kept downward strained With sly, masterful winches made of fear.

Yea, when the mind is warned what engines mean To ply it into grovelling, and thought set firm, The tugging strings fail like a cobweb-stuff.

Not as in Baghdad is it with me now; Nor canst thou, Satan, by a prating mouth Fell my tall purpose to a flatlong scorn.

I can divide the check of G.o.d's own hand From tempting such as this: India is mine!-- Ay, fiend, and if thou utter thy storming heart Into the ocean sea, as into mob A rebel utters turbulence and rage, And raise before my path swelling barriers Of hatred soul'd in water, yet will I strike My purpose, and G.o.d's purpose, clean through all The ridges of thy power. And I will show This mask that the devil wears, this old shipman, A thing to make his proud heart of evil Writhe like a trodden snake; yea, he shall see How G.o.dly faith can go upon the huge Fury of forces bursting out of law, Easily as a boy goes on windy gra.s.s.-- O marvel! that my little life of mind Can by mere thinking the unsizeable Creature of sea enslave! I must believe it.

The mind hath many powers beyond name Deep womb'd within it, and can shoot strange vigours: Men there have been who could so grimly look That soldiers' hearts went out like candle flames Before their eyes, and the blood perisht in them.-- But I--could I do that? Would I not feel The power in me if 'twas there? And yet 'Twere a child's game to what I have to do, For days and days with sleepless faith oppress And terrorise the demon sea. I think A man might, as I saw my Master once, Pa.s.s unharmed through a storm of men, yet fail At this that lies before me: men are mind, And mind can conquer mind; but how can it quell The unappointed purpose of great waters?-- Well, say the sea is past: why, then I have My feet but on the threshold of my task, To gospel India,--my single heart To seize into the order of its beat All the strange blood of India, my brain To lord the dark thought of that tann'd mankind!-- O horrible those sweltry places are, Where the sun comes so close, it makes the earth Burn in a frenzy of breeding,--smoke and flame Of lives burning up from agoniz'd loam!

Those monstrous sappy jungles of clutcht growth, Enormous weed hugging enormous weed, What can such fearful increase have to do With prospering bounty? A rage works in the ground, Incurably, like frantic lechery, Pouring its pa.s.sion out in crops and sp.a.w.ns.

'Tis as the mighty spirit of life, that here Walketh beautifully praising, glad of G.o.d, Should, stepping on the poison'd Indian sh.o.r.e, Breathing the Indian air of fire and steams, Fling herself into a craze of hideous dancing, The green gown whipping her swift limbs, all her body Writhen to speak inutterable desire, Tormented by a glee of hating G.o.d.

Nay, it must be, to visit India, That frantic pomp and hurrying forth of life, As if a man should enter at unawares The dreaming mind of Satan, gorgeously Imagining his eternal h.e.l.l of l.u.s.t.--

They say the land is full of apes, which have Their own G.o.ds and worship; how ghastly, this!-- That demons (for it must be so) should build, In mockery of man's upward faith, the souls Of monkeys, those lewd mammets of mankind, Into a dreadful farce of adoration!

And flies! a land of flies! where the hot soil Foul with ceaseless decay steams into flies!

So thick they pile themselves in the air above Their meal of filth, they seem like breathing heaps Of formless life mounded upon the earth; And buzzing always like the pipes and strings Of solemn music made for sorcerers.-- I abhor flies,--to see them stare upon me Out of their little faces of gibbous eyes; To feel the dry cool skin of their bodies alight Perching upon my lips!--O yea, a dream, A dream of impious obscene Satan, this Monstrous frenzy of life, the Indian being!

And there are men in the dream! What men are they?

I've heard, naught relishes their brains so much As to tie down a man and tease his flesh Infamously, until a hundred pains Hound the desiring life out of his body, Filling his nerves with such a fearful zest That the soul overstrained shatters beneath it.

Must I preach G.o.d to these murderous hearts?

I would my lot had fallen to go and dare Death from the silent dealing of Northern cold!--

O, but I would face all these Indian fears, The horror of the huge power of life, The beasts all fierce and venomous, the men With cruel souls, learned to invent pain, All these and more, if I had any hope That, braving them, Lord Christ prosper'd through me.

If Christ desired India, He had sent The band of us, solder'd in one great purpose, To strike His message through those dark vast tribes But one man!--O surely it is folly, And we misread the lot! One man, to thrust, Even though in his soul the lamp was kindled At G.o.d's own hands, one man's lit soul to thrust The immense Indian darkness out of the world!

For human flesh there breeds as furiously As the green things and the cattle; and it is all, All this enormity of measureless folk, Penn'd in a land so close to the devil's reign The very apes have faith in him.--No, no; Impetuous brains mistake the signs of G.o.d Too easily. G.o.d would not have me waste My zeal for Him in this wild enterprise, Of going alone to swarming India;--one man, One mortal voice, to charm those myriad ears Away from the fiendish clamour of Indian G.o.ds, One man preaching the truth against the huge Bray of the gongs and horns of the Indian priests!

A cup of wine poured in the sea were not More surely lost in the green and brackish depths, Than the fire and fragrance of my doctrine poured Into that mult.i.tudinous pond of men, India.--Shipman! Master of the ship!-- I have thought better of this journey; now I find I am not meant to go.

Captain: Not meant?

Thomas: I would say, I had forgotten Indian air Is full of fevers; and my health is bad For holding out against fever.

Captain: As you please.

I keep your fare, though.

Thomas: O, 'tis yours.--Good sailing!

[As he makes to depart, a n.o.ble Stranger is seen approaching along the quay.]

Captain: Well, here's a marvel: 'Tis a king, for sure!

'Twould take the taxes of a world to dress A man in that silken gold, and all those gems.

What a flash the light makes of him; nay, he burns; And he's here on the quay all by himself, Not even a slave to fan him!--Man, you're ailing!

You look like death; is it the falling sickness?

Or has the mere thought of the Indian journey Made your marrow quail with a cold fever?

The Stranger: (to the Captain)

You are the master of this ship?

Captain: I am.

Stranger: This huddled man belongs to me: a slave Escaped my service.

Captain: Lord, I knew not that.

But you are in good time.

Stranger: And was the slave For putting out with you? Where are you bound?

Captain: To India. First he would sail, and then Again he would not. But, my Lord, I swear I never guesst he was a runaway.

Stranger: Well, he shall have his mind and go with you To India: a good slave he is, but bears A restless thought. He has slipt off before, And vexes me still to be watching him.

We'll make a bargain of him.

Captain: I, my Lord?

I have no need of slaves: I am too poor.

Stranger: For twenty silver pieces he is yours.

Captain: That's cheap, if he has skill. Yes, there might be Profit in him at that. Has he a trade?