Part 2

"I was the only boy, and father thought I'd farm the Spital after he was dead, And many a time he took me out and taught About manures and seed-corn white and red, And soils and hops, but I'd an empty head; Harvest or seed, I would not do a turn-- I loathed the farm, I didn't want to learn.

"He did not mind at first, he thought it youth Feeling the collar, and that I should change. Then time gave him some inklings of the truth, And that I loathed the farm, and wished to range. Truth to a man of fifty's always strange; It was most strange and terrible to him That I, his heir, should be the devil's limb.

"Yet still he hoped the Lord might change my mind. I'd see him bridle in his wrath and hate, And almost break my heart he was so kind, Biting his lips sore with resolve to wait. And then I'd try awhile; but it was Fate: I didn't want to learn; the farm to me Was mire and hopeless work and misery.

"Though there were things I loved about it, too-- The beasts, the apple-trees, and going haying. And then I tried; but no, it wouldn't do, The farm was prison, and my thoughts were straying. And there'd come father, with his grey head, praying, 'O, my dear son, don't let the Spital pass; It's my old home, boy, where your grandfer was.

"'And now you won't learn farming; you don't care. The old home's nought to you. I've tried to teach you; I've begged Almighty God, boy, all I dare, To use His hand if word of mine won't reach you. Boy, for your granfer's sake I do beseech you, Don't let the Spital pass to strangers. Squire Has said he'd give it you if we require.

"Your mother used to walk here, boy, with me It was her favourite walk down to the mill; And there we'd talk how little death would be, Knowing our work was going on here still. You've got the brains, you only want the will-- Don't disappoint your mother and your father. I'll give you time to travel, if you'd rather.'

"But, no, I'd wander up the brooks to read. Then sister Jane would start with nagging tongue, Saying my sin made father's heart to bleed, And how she feared she'd live to see me hung. And then she'd read me bits from Dr. Young. And when we three would sit to supper, Jane Would fillip dad till dad began again.

"'I've been here all my life, boy. I was born Up in the room above--looks on the mead. I never thought you'd cockle my clean corn, And leave the old home to a stranger's seed. Father and I have made here 'thout a weed: We've give our lives to make that. Eighty years. And now I go down to the grave in tears.'

"And then I'd get ashamed and take off coat, And work maybe a week, ploughing and sowing And then I'd creep away and sail my boat, Or watch the water when the mill was going. That's my delight--to be near water flowing, Dabbling or sailing boats or jumping stanks, Or finding moorhens' nests along the banks.

"And one day father found a ship I'd built; He took the cart-whip to me over that, And I, half mad with pain, and sick with guilt, Went up and hid in what we called the flat, A dusty hole given over to the cat. She kittened there; the kittens had worn paths Among the cobwebs, dust, and broken laths.

"And putting down my hand between the beams I felt a leathery thing, and pulled it clear: A book with white cocoons stuck in the seams, Where spiders had had nests for many a year. It was my mother's sketch-book; hid, I fear, Lest dad should ever see it. Mother's life Was not her own while she was father's wife.

"There were her drawings, dated, pencilled faint. March was the last one, eighteen eighty-three, Unfinished that, for tears had smeared the paint. The rest was landscape, not yet brought to be. That was a holy afternoon to me; That book a sacred book; the flat a place Where I could meet my mother face to face.

"She had found peace of spirit, mother had, Drawing the landscape from the attic there-- Heart-broken, often, after rows with dad, Hid like a wild thing in a secret lair. That rotting sketch-book showed me how and where I, too, could get away; and then I knew That drawing was the work I longed to do.

"Drawing became my life. I drew, I toiled, And every penny I could get I spent On paints and artist's matters, which I spoiled Up in the attic to my heart's content, Till one day father asked me what I meant; The time had come, he said, to make an end. Now it must finish: what did I intend?

"Either I took to farming, like his son, In which case he would teach me, early and late (Provided that my daubing mood was done), Or I must go: it must be settled straight. If I refused to farm, there was the gate. I was to choose, his patience was all gone, The present state of things could not go on.

"Sister was there; she eyed me while he spoke. The kitchen clock ran down and struck the hour, And something told me father's heart was broke, For all he stood so set and looked so sour. Jane took a duster, and began to scour A pewter on the dresser; she was crying. I stood stock still a long time, not replying.

"Dad waited, then he snorted and turned round. 'Well, think of it,' he said. He left the room, His boots went clop along the stony ground Out to the orchard and the apple-bloom. A cloud came past the sun and made a gloom; I swallowed with dry lips, then sister turned. She was dead white but for her eyes that burned.

"'You're breaking father's heart, Joe," she began; 'It's not as if----' she checked, in too much pain. 'O, Joe, don't help to kill so fine a man; You're giving him our mother over again. It's wearing him to death, Joe, heart and brain; You know what store he sets on leaving this To (it's too cruel) to a son of his.

"'Yet you go painting all the day. O, Joe, Couldn't you make an effort? Can't you see What folly it is of yours? It's not as though You are a genius, or could ever be. O, Joe, for father's sake, if not for me, Give up this craze for painting, and be wise And work with father, where your duty lies.'

"'It goes too deep,' I said; 'I loathe the farm; I couldn't help, even if I'd the mind. Even if I helped, I'd only do him harm; Father would see it, if he were not blind. I was not built to farm, as he would find. O, Jane, it's bitter hard to stand alone And spoil my father's life or spoil my own.'

"'Spoil both,' she said, 'the way you're shaping now. You're only a boy not knowing your own good. Where will you go, suppose you leave here? How Do you propose to earn your daily food? Draw? Daub the pavements? There's a feckless brood Goes to the devil daily, Joe, in cities Only from thinking how divine their wit is.

"'Clouds are they, without water, carried away. And you'll be one of them, the way you're going, Daubing at silly pictures all the day, And praised by silly fools who're always blowing. And you choose this when you might go a-sowing, Casting the good corn into chosen mould That shall in time bring forth a hundredfold.'

"So we went on, but in the end it ended. I felt I'd done a murder; I felt sick. There's much in human minds cannot be mended, And that, not I, played dad a cruel trick. There was one mercy: that it ended quick. I went to join my mother's brother: he Lived down the Severn. He was kind to me.

"And there I learned house-painting for a living. I'd have been happy there, but that I knew I'd sinned before my father past forgiving, And that they sat at home, that silent two, Wearing the fire out and the evening through, Silent, defeated, broken, in despair, My plate unset, my name gone, and my chair.

"I saw all that; and sister Jane came white-- White as a ghost, with fiery, weeping eyes. I saw her all day long and half the night, Bitter as gall, and passionate and wise. 'Joe, you have killed your father: there he lies. You have done your work--you with our mother's ways.' She said it plain, and then her eyes would blaze.

"And then one day I had a job to do Down below bridge, by where the docks begin, And there I saw a clipper towing through, Up from the sea that morning, entering in. Raked to the nines she was, lofty and thin, Her ensign ruffling red, her bunts in pile, Beauty and strength together, wonder, style.

"She docked close to the gates, and there she lay Over the water from me, well in sight; And as I worked I watched her all the day, Finding her beauty ever fresh delight. Her house-flag was bright green with strips of white; High in the sunny air it rose to shake Above the skysail poles most splendid rake."

"And when I felt unhappy I would look Over the river at her, and her pride. So calm, so quiet, came as a rebuke To half the passionate pathways which I tried; And though the autumn ran its term and died, And winter fell and cold December came. She was still splendid there, and still the same.

"Then on a day she sailed; but when she went My mind was clear on what I had to try: To see the sea and ships, and what they meant, That was the thing I longed to do; so I Drew and worked hard, and studied and put by, And thought of nothing else but that one end, But let all else go hang--love, money, friend.

"And now I've shipped as Dauber I've begun. It was hard work to find a dauber's berth; I hadn't any friends to find me one, Only my skill, for what it may be worth; But I'm at sea now, going about the earth, And when the ship's paid off, when we return, I'll join some Paris studio and learn."

He stopped, the air came moist, Si did not speak; The Dauber turned his eyes to where he sat, Pressing the sail-room hinges with his cheek, His face half covered with a drooping hat. Huge dewdrops from the stay-sails dropped and spat. Si did not stir, the Dauber touched his sleeve; A little birdlike noise came from a sheave.

Si was asleep, sleeping a calm deep sleep, Still as a warden of the Egyptian dead In some old haunted temple buried deep Under the desert sand, sterile and red. The Dauber shook his arm; Si jumped and said, "Good yarn, I swear! I say, you have a brain-- Was that eight bells that went?" He slept again.

Then waking up, "I've had a nap," he cried. "Was that one bell? What, Dauber, you still here?" "Si there?" the Mate's voice called. "Sir," he replied. The order made the lad's thick vision clear; A something in the Mate's voice made him fear. "Si," said the Mate, "I hear you've made a friend-- Dauber, in short. That friendship's got to end.

"You're a young gentleman. Your place aboard Is with the gentlemen abaft the mast. You're learning to command; you can't afford To yarn with any man. But there ... it's past. You've done it once; let this time be the last. The Dauber's place is forward. Do it again, I'll put you bunking forward with the men.

"Dismiss." Si went, but Sam, beside the Mate, Timekeeper there, walked with him to the rail And whispered him the menace of "You wait"-- Words which have turned full many a reefer pale. The watch was changed; the watch on deck trimmed sail. Sam, going below, called all the reefers down, Sat in his bunk and eyed them with a frown.

"Si here," he said, "has soiled the half-deck's name Talking to Dauber--Dauber, the ship's clout. A reefer takes the Dauber for a flame, The half-deck take the round-house walking out. He's soiled the half-deck's honour; now, no doubt, The Bosun and his mates will come here sneaking, Asking for smokes, or blocking gangways speaking.

"I'm not a vain man, given to blow or boast; I'm not a proud man, but I truly feel That while I've bossed this mess and ruled this roast I've kept this hooker's half-deck damned genteel. Si must ask pardon, or be made to squeal. Down on your knees, dog; them we love we chasten. Jao, pasea, my son--in English, Hasten."

Si begged for pardon, meekly kneeling down Before the reefer's mess assembled grim. The lamp above them smoked the glass all brown; Beyond the door the dripping sails were dim. The Dauber passed the door; none spoke to him. He sought his berth and slept, or, waking, heard Rain on the deck-house--rain, no other word.

IV

Out of the air a time of quiet came, Calm fell upon the heaven like a drowth; The brass sky watched the brassy water flame. Drowsed as a snail the clipper loitered south Slowly, with no white bone across her mouth; No rushing glory, like a queen made bold, The Dauber strove to draw her as she rolled.

There the four leaning spires of canvas rose, Royals and skysails lifting, gently lifting, White like the brightness that a great fish blows When billows are at peace and ships are drifting; With mighty jerks that set the shadows shifting, The courses tugged their tethers: a blue haze Drifted like ghosts of flocks come down to graze.

There the great skyline made her perfect round, Notched now and then by the sea's deeper blue; A smoke-smutch marked a steamer homeward bound, The haze wrought all things to intenser hue. In tingling impotence the Dauber drew As all men draw, keen to the shaken soul To give a hint that might suggest the whole.

A naked seaman washing a red shirt Sat at a tub whistling between his teeth; Complaining blocks quavered like something hurt. A sailor cut an old boot for a sheath, The ship bowed to her shadow-ship beneath, And little slaps of spray came at the roll On to the deck-planks from the scupper-hole.

He watched it, painting patiently, as paints With eyes that pierce behind the blue sky's veil, The Benedictine in a Book of Saints Watching the passing of the Holy Grail; The green dish dripping blood, the trump, the hail, The spears that pass, the memory and the passion, The beauty moving under this world's fashion.

But as he painted, slowly, man by man, The seamen gathered near; the Bosun stood Behind him, jeering; then the Sails began Sniggering with comment that it was not good. Chips flicked his sketch with little scraps of wood, Saying, "That hit the top-knot," every time. Cook mocked, "My lovely drawings; it's a crime."

Slowly the men came nearer, till a crowd Stood at his elbow, muttering as he drew; The Bosun, turning to them, spoke aloud, "This is the ship that never got there. You Look at her here, what Dauber's trying to do. Look at her! lummy, like a Christmas-tree. That thing's a ship; he calls this painting. See?"

Seeing the crowd, the Mate came forward; then "Sir," said the Bosun, "come and see the sight! Here's Dauber makes a circus for the men. He calls this thing a ship--this hell's delight!" "Man," said the Mate, "you'll never get her right Daubing like that. Look here!" He took a brush. "Now, Dauber, watch; I'll put you to the blush.

"Look here. Look there. Now watch this ship of mine." He drew her swiftly from a memory stored. "God, sir," the Bosun said, "you do her fine!" "Ay," said the Mate, "I do so, by the Lord! I'll paint a ship with any man aboard." They hung about his sketch like beasts at bait. "There now, I taught him painting," said the Mate.

When he had gone, the gathered men dispersed; Yet two or three still lingered to dispute What errors made the Dauber's work the worst. They probed his want of knowledge to the root. "Bei Gott!" they swore, "der Dauber cannot do 't; He haf no knolich how to put der pense. Der Mate's is goot. Der Dauber haf no sense."

"You hear?" the Bosun cried, "you cannot do it!" "A gospel truth," the Cook said, "true as hell! And wisdom, Dauber, if you only knew it; A five year boy would do a ship as well." "If that's the kind of thing you hope to sell, God help you," echoed Chips. "I tell you true, The job's beyond you, Dauber; drop it, do.

"Drop it, in God's name drop it, and have done! You see you cannot do it. Here's the Mate Paints you to frazzles before everyone; Paints you a dandy clipper while you wait. While you, Lord love us, daub. I tell you straight, We've had enough of daubing; drop it; quit. You cannot paint, so make an end of it."

"That's sense," said all; "you cannot, why pretend?" The Dauber rose and put his easel by. "You've said enough," he said, "now let it end. Who cares how bad my painting may be? I Mean to go on, and, if I fail, to try. However much I miss of my intent, If I have done my best I'll be content.

"You cannot understand that. Let it be. You cannot understand, nor know, nor share. This is a matter touching only me; My sketch may be a daub, for aught I care. You may be right. But even if you were, Your mocking should not stop this work of mine; Rot though it be, its prompting is divine.

"You cannot understand that--you, and you, And you, you Bosun. You can stand and jeer, That is the task your spirit fits you to, That you can understand and hold most dear. Grin, then, like collars, ear to donkey ear, But let me daub. Try, you, to understand Which task will bear the light best on God's hand."

V

The wester came as steady as the Trades; Brightly it blew, and still the ship did shoulder The brilliance of the water's white cockades Into the milky green of smoky smoulder. The sky grew bluer and the air grew colder. Southward she thundered while the westers held, Proud, with taut bridles, pawing, but compelled.

And still the Dauber strove, though all men mocked, To draw the splendour of the passing thing, And deep inside his heart a something locked. Long pricking in him, now began to sting-- A fear of the disasters storm might bring; His rank as painter would be ended then-- He would keep watch and watch like other men.

And go aloft with them to man the yard When the great ship was rolling scuppers under, Burying her snout all round the compass card, While the green water struck at her and stunned her; When the lee-rigging slacked, when one long thunder Boomed from the black to windward, when the sail Booted and spurred the devil in the gale

For him to ride on men: that was the time The Dauber dreaded; then the test would come, When seas, half-frozen, slushed the decks with slime, And all the air was blind with flying scum; When the drenched sails were furled, when the fierce hum In weather riggings died into the roar Of God's eternal never tamed by shore.

Once in the passage he had worked aloft, Shifting her suits one summer afternoon, In the bright Trade wind, when the wind was soft, Shaking the points, making the tackle croon. But that was child's play to the future: soon He would be ordered up when sails and spars Were flying and going mad among the stars.

He had been scared that first time, daunted, thrilled, Not by the height so much as by the size, And then the danger to the man unskilled In standing on a rope that runs through eyes. "But in a storm," he thought, "the yards will rise And roll together down, and snap their gear!" The sweat came cold upon his palms for fear.

Sometimes in Gloucester he had felt a pang Swinging below the house-eaves on a stage. But stages carry rails; here he would hang Upon a jerking rope in a storm's rage, Ducked that the sheltering oilskin might assuage The beating of the storm, clutching the jack, Beating the sail, and being beaten back.

Drenched, frozen, gasping, blinded, beaten dumb, High in the night, reeling great blinding arcs As the ship rolled, his chappy fingers numb, The deck below a narrow blur of marks, The sea a welter of whiteness shot with sparks, Now snapping up in bursts, now dying away, Salting the horizontal snow with spray.

A hundred and fifty feet above the deck, And there, while the ship rolls, boldly to sit Upon a foot-rope moving, jerk and check, While half a dozen seamen work on it; Held by one hand, straining, by strength and wit To toss a gasket's coil around the yard. How could he compass that when blowing hard?

And if he failed in any least degree, Or faltered for an instant, or showed slack, He might go drown himself within the sea, And add a bubble to the clipper's track. He had signed his name, there was no turning back, No pardon for default--this must be done. One iron rule at sea binds everyone.

Till now he had been treated with contempt As neither man nor thing, a creature borne On the ship's articles, but left exempt From all the seamen's life except their scorn. But he would rank as seaman off the Horn, Work as a seaman, and be kept or cast By standards set for men before the mast.

Even now they shifted suits of sails; they bent The storm-suit ready for the expected time; The mighty wester that the Plate had lent Had brought them far into the wintry clime. At dawn, out of the shadow, there was rime, The dim Magellan Clouds were frosty clear, The wind had edge, the testing-time was near.

And then he wondered if the tales were lies Told by old hands to terrify the new, For, since the ship left England, only twice Had there been need to start a sheet or clew, Then only royals, for an hour or two, And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold. What were these gales of which the stories told?

The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tell Too often, and too fiercely, not to know That being off the Horn in June is hell: Hell of continual toil in ice and snow, Frostbitten hell in which the westers blow Shrieking for days on end, in which the seas Gulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze.

Such was the weather he might look to find, Such was the work expected: there remained Firmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind, And be the first, however much it pained, And bring his honour round the Horn unstained, And win his mates' respect; and thence, untainted, Be ranked as man however much he painted.

He drew deep breath; a gantline swayed aloft A lower topsail, hard with rope and leather, Such as men's frozen fingers fight with oft Below the Ramirez in Cape Horn weather. The arms upon the yard hove all together, Lighting the head along; a thought occurred Within the painter's brain like a bright bird:

That this, and so much like it, of man's toil, Compassed by naked manhood in strange places, Was all heroic, but outside the coil Within which modern art gleams or grimaces; That if he drew that line of sailors' faces Sweating the sail, their passionate play and change, It would be new, and wonderful, and strange.

That that was what his work meant; it would be A training in new vision--a revealing Of passionate men in battle with the sea, High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling; And men through him would understand their feeling, Their might, their misery, their tragic power, And all by suffering pain a little hour;

High on the yard with them, feeling their pain, Battling with them; and it had not been done. He was a door to new worlds in the brain, A window opening letting in the sun, A voice saying, "Thus is bread fetched and ports won, And life lived out at sea where men exist Solely by man's strong brain and sturdy wrist."

So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses, Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shout Where the taut gantline passes and repasses, Heaving new topsails to be lighted out. It was most proud, however self might doubt, To share man's tragic toil and paint it true. He took the offered Fate: this he would do.