Herman Melville

“ They hate us:—good;—they always have; yet still we’ve reigned, son after sire. Sometimes they slay us, Babbalanja; pour out our marrow, as I this wine; but they spill no kinless blood. ’Twas justly held of old, that but to touch a monarch, was to strike at Oro.—Truth. The palest vengeance is a royal ghost; and regicides but father slaves. Thrones, not scepters, have been broken. Mohi, what of the past? Has it not ever proved so?”
“Pardon, my lord; the times seem changed. ’Tis held, that demi-gods no more rule by right divine. In Vivenza’s land, they swear the last kings now reign in Mardi.” ”

“ A Death-Cloud Sweeps By Them, As They Sail
Next day, a fearful sight!
As in Sooloo’s seas, one vast water-spout will, sudden, form: and whirling, chase the flying Malay keels; so, before a swift-winged cloud, a thousand prows sped by, leaving braided, foaming wakes; their crowded inmates’ arms, in frenzied supplications wreathed; like tangled forest-boughs.
“See, see,” cried Yoomy, “how the Death-cloud flies! Let us dive down in the sea.”
“Nay,” said Babbalanja. “All things come of Oro; if we must drown, let Oro drown us.”
“Down sails: drop paddles,” said Media: “here we float.” ”

“ Right-reason, and Alma, are the same; else Alma, not reason, would we reject. The Master’s great command is Love; and here do all things wise, and all things good, unite. Love is all in all. The more we love, the more we know; and so reversed. Oro we love; this isle; and our wide arms embrace all Mardi like its reef. How can we err, thus feeling? We hear loved Alma’s pleading, prompting voice, in every breeze, in every leaf; we see his earnest eye in every star and flower.”
“Poetry!” cried Yoomy; “and poetry is truth! ”

“ Nay, nay, Death is Life’s last despair. Hard and horrible is it to die. Oro himself, in Alma, died not without a groan. Yet why, why live? Life is wearisome to all: the same dull round. Day and night, summer and winter, round about us revolving for aye. One moment lived, is a life. No new stars appear in the sky; no new lights in the soul. Yet, of changes there are many. For though, with rapt sight, in childhood, we behold many strange things beneath the moon, and all Mardi looks a tented fair— how soon every thing fades. All of us, in our very bodies, outlive our own selves. ”

“ Let’s have the amber cups: so: pass them round;—fill all! Taji! my demi-god, up heart! Old Mohi, my babe, may you live ten thousand centuries! Ah! this way you mortals have of dying out at three score years and ten, is but a craven habit. So, Babbalanja! may you never die. Yoomy! my sweet poet, may you live to sing to me in Paradise. Ha, ha! would that we floated in this glorious stuff, instead of this pestilent brine.—Hark ye! were I to make a Mardi now, I’d have every continent a huge haunch of venison; every ocean a wine-vat! ”

“ ABRAZZA—In other words, yams were indispensable, and, poor devil, he roared to get them.
BABBALANJA (bowing) —Partly so, my literal lord. And as with your own golden scepter, at times upon your royal teeth, indolent tattoos you beat; then, potent, sway it o’er your isle; so, Lombardo. And ere Necessity plunged spur and rowel into him, he knew not his own paces. That churned him into consciousness; and brought ambition, ere then dormant, seething to the top, till he trembled at himself. No mailed hand lifted up against a traveler in woods, can so, appall, as we ourselves. ”

“ With one gesture all abysses we may disclose; and before this Mardi’s eyes, evoke the shrouded time to come. Were this well? Like lost children groping in the woods, they falter through their tangled paths; and at a thousand angles, baffled, start upon each other. And even when they make an onward move, ’tis but an endless vestibule, that leads to naught. In my own isle of Odo—Odo! Odo! How rules my viceroy there?—Down, down, ye madding mobs! Ho, spearmen, charge! By the firmament, but my halberdiers fly!”
“His dream has changed,” said Babbalanja. ”

“ Approaching one of the serfs, Media took him by the hand, and felt of it long; and looked into his eyes; and placed his ear to his side; and exclaimed, “Surely this being has flesh that is warm; he has Oro in his eye; and a heart in him that beats. I swear he is a man.”
“Is this our lord the king?” cried Mohi, starting.
“What art thou,” said Babbalanja to the serf. “Dost ever feel in thee a sense of right and wrong? Art ever glad or sad?—They tell us thou art not a man:—speak, then, for thyself; say, whether thou beliest thy Maker.” ”

“ Babbalanja thus:—“My voyage is ended. Not because what we sought is found; but that I now possess all which may be had of what I sought in Mardi. Here, tarry to grow wiser still:—then I am Alma’s and the world’s. Taji! for Yillah thou wilt hunt in vain; she is a phantom that but mocks thee; and while for her thou madly huntest, the sin thou didst cries out, and its avengers still will follow. But here they may not come: nor those, who, tempting, track thy path. Wise counsel take. Within our hearts is all we seek: though in that search many need a prompter. Him I have found in blessed Alma. ”

“ In heavy sighs, the night-winds from shore came over us.
“Ah, vain to seek sweet Yillah here,” cried Yoomy.—“Poor land! curst of man, not Oro! how thou faintest for thy children, torn from thy soil, to till a stranger’s. Vivenza! did these winds not spend their plaints, ere reaching thee, thy every vale would echo them. Oh, tribe of Hamo! thy cup of woe so brims, that soon it must overflow upon the land which holds ye thralls. No misery born of crime, but spreads and poisons wide. Suffering hunteth sin, as the gaunt hound the hare, and tears it in the greenest brakes.” ”

“ ABRAZZA—Then genius is not inspired, after all. How they must slave in their mines! I weep to think of it.
BABBALANJA—My lord, all men are inspired; fools are inspired; your highness is inspired; for the essence of all ideas is infused. Of ourselves, and in ourselves, we originate nothing. When Lombardo set about his work, he knew not what it would become. He did not build himself in with plans; he wrote right on; and so doing, got deeper and deeper into himself; and like a resolute traveler, plunging through baffling woods, at last was rewarded for his toils. ”

“ I hope; I love; I weep; I have in me a feeling nigh to fear, that is not fear; but wholly vile I am not; nor can we love and cringe. But Oro knows my heart, which I can not speak.”
“Impious boy,” cried they with the censers, “we will offer thee up, before the very image thou contemnest. In the name of Alma, seize him.”
And they bore him away unresisting.
“Thus perish the ungodly,” said Pani to the shuddering pilgrims.
And they quitted the temple, to journey toward the Peak of Ofo.
“My soul bursts!” cried Yoomy. “My lord, my lord, let us save the boy.”
“Speak not,” said Media. ”

“ Mardi is alive to its axis. When you pour water, does it not gurgle? When you strike a pearl shell, does it not ring? Think you there is no sensation in being a rock?—To exist, is to be; to be, is to be something: to be something, is—”
“Go on,” said Media.
“And what is it, to be something?” said Yoomy artlessly. “Bethink yourself of what went before,” said Media.
“Lose not the thread,” said Mohi.
“It has snapped,” said Babbalanja.
“I breathe again,” said Mohi.
“But what a stepping-off place you came to then, philosopher,” said Media. ”

“ Will gold the heart-ache cure? turn toward us hearts estranged? will gold, on solid centers empires fix? ’Tis toil world-wasted to toil in mines. Were all the isles gold globes, set in a quicksilver sea, all Mardi were then a desert. Gold is the only poverty; of all glittering ills the direst. And that man might not impoverish himself thereby, Oro hath hidden it, with all other banes,—saltpeter and explosives, deep in mountain bowels, and river-beds. But man still will mine for it; and mining, dig his doom.— Yoomy, Yoomy!—she we seek, lurks not in the Golden Hills! ”

“ A long sail over, the island of Pimminee came in sight; one dead fiat, wreathed in a thin, insipid vapor.
“My lord, why land?” said Babbalanja; “no Yillah is here.”
“’Tis my humor, Babbalanja.”
Said Yoomy, “Taji would leave no isle unexplored.”
As we neared the beach, the atmosphere became still closer and more languid. Much did we miss the refreshing balm which breathed in the fine breezy air of the open lagoon. Of a slender and sickly growth seemed the trees; in the meadows, the grass grew small and mincing. ”

“ Just bounding from fresh morning groves, with the brine he mixed the dew of leaves,—his antlers dripping on the swell, that rippled before his brown and bow-like chest.
“Five hundred thousand centuries since,” said Babbalanja, “this same sight was seen. With Oro, the sun is co-eternal; and the same life that moves that moose, animates alike the sun and Oro. All are parts of One. In me, in me, flit thoughts participated by the beings peopling all the stars. Saturn, and Mercury, and Mardi, are brothers, one and all; and across their orbits, to each other talk, like souls. ”

“ We die by land, and die by sea; we die by earthquakes, famines, plagues, and wars; by fevers, agues; woe, or mirth excessive. This mortal air is one wide pestilence, that kills us all at last. Whom the Death-cloud spares, sleeping, dies in silent watches of the night. He whom the spears of many battles could not slay, dies of a grape-stone, beneath the vine-clad bower he built, to shade declining years. We die, because we live. But none the less does Babbalanja quake. And if he flies not, ’tis because he stands the center of a circle ”

“ Love and Alma now prevail. I see with other eyes:—Are these my hands? What wild, wild dreams were mine;—I have been mad. Some things there are, we must not think of. Beyond one obvious mark, all human lore is vain. Where have I lived till now? Had dark Maramma’s zealot tribe but murmured to me as this old man, long since had I, been wise! Reason no longer domineers; but still doth speak. All I have said ere this, that wars with Alma’s precepts, I here recant. Here I kneel, and own great Oro and his sovereign son.”
“And here another kneels and prays,” cried Yoomy. ”

“ As motionless we thus reclined, Media turned and muttered:—“Brother gods, and demi-gods, it is not well. These mortals should have less or more. Among my subjects is a man, whose genius scorns the common theories of things; but whose still mortal mind can not fathom the ocean at his feet. His soul’s a hollow, wherein he raves.”
“List, list,” whispered Yoomy—“our lord is dreaming; and what a royal dream.”
“A very royal and imperial dream,” said Babbalanja—“he is arraigning me before high heaven;—ay, ay; in dreams, at least, he deems himself a demi-god.” ”

“ And what says the archangel Vavona, Yoomy, in that wonderful drama of his, ‘The Souls of the Sages?’—‘Beyond most barren hills, there are landscapes ravishing; with but one eye to behold; which no pencil can portray.’ What wonder then, my lord, that Mardi itself is so blind. ‘Mardi is a monster,’ says old Bardianna, ‘whose eyes are fixed in its head, like a whale’s; it can see but two ways, and those comprising but a small arc of a perfect vision. Poets, heroes, and men of might, are all around this monster Mardi. But stand before me on stilts, or I will behold you not, says the monster ”

“ But hear me, Oro! were there no other way, and should their masters not relent, all honest hearts must cheer this tribe of Hamo on; though they cut their chains with blades thrice edged, and gory to the haft! ’Tis right to fight for freedom, whoever be the thrall.”
“These South savannahs may yet prove battle-fields,” said Mohi; gloomily, as we retraced our steps.
“Be it,” said Yoomy. “Oro will van the right.”
“Not always has it proved so,” said Babbalanja. “Oft-times, the right fights single-handed against the world; and Oro champions none. ”

“ My lord, when wild with much thought, ’tis to wine I fly, to sober me; its magic fumes breathe over me like the Indian summer, which steeps all nature in repose. To me, wine is no vulgar fire, no fosterer of base passions; my heart, ever open, is opened still wider; and glorious visions are born in my brain; it is then that I have all Mardi under my feet, and the constellations of the firmament in my soul.”
“Superb!” cried Yoomy.
“Pooh, pooh!” said Mohi, “who does not see stars at such times? ”

“ Then, whate’er they be, let us show our worlds; and not seek to hide from men, what Oro knows.”
“Truth, my lord,” said Yoomy, “but all this applies to men in mass; not specially, to my poor craft. Of all mortals, we poets are most subject to contrary moods. Now, heaven over heaven in the skies; now layer under layer in the dust. This, the penalty we pay for being what we are. But Mardi only sees, or thinks it sees, the tokens of our self-complacency: whereas, all our agonies operate unseen. Poets are only seen when they soar.”
“The song! the song!” cried Media. ”

“ But from out that darkness, on the loftiest peak, Bello’s standard waved.
“Oh rifled tomb!” cried Babbalanja. “Wherein lay the Mars and Moloch of our times, whose constellated crown, was gemmed with diadems. Thou god of war! who didst seem the devouring Beast of the Apocalypse; casting so vast a shadow over Mardi, that yet it lingers in old Franko’s vale; where still they start at thy tremendous ghost; and, late, have hailed a phantom, King! Almighty hero-spell! that after the lapse of half a century, can so bewitch all hearts! But one drop of hero-blood will deify a fool. ”

“ But hoot! hoot! the night-owl ranges through the woodlands of Maramma; its dismal notes pervade our lives; and when we would fain depart in peace, that bird flies on before:— cloud-like, eclipsing our setting suns, and filling the air with dolor.”
“Too true!” cried Yoomy. “Our calms must come by storms. Like helmless vessels, tempest-tossed, our only anchorage is when we founder.”
“Our beginnings,” murmured Mohi, “are lost in clouds; we live in darkness all our days, and perish without an end.”
“Croak on, cowards!” cried Media, “and fly before the hideous phantoms that pursue ye.” ”

“ What bard composed the soft verses that our palm boughs sing at even? Nay, Yoomy, that monody was not written by man.”
“Ah! Would that I had been the poet, Babbalanja; for then had I been famous indeed; those lines are chanted through all the isles, by prince and peasant. Yes, Adondo’s monody will pervade the ages, like the low under-tone you hear, when many singers do sing.”
“My lord, my lord,” cried Babbalanja, “but this were to be truly immortal;—to be perpetuated in our works, and not in our names. Let me, oh Oro! be anonymously known!” ”

“ MEDIA (to Abrazza) —My lord, you start again; but ’tis only another phase of Azzageeddi; sometimes he’s quite mad. But all this you must needs overlook.
ABRAZZA—I will, my dear prince; what one can not see through, one must needs look over, as you say.
YOOMY—But trust me, your Highness, some of those strange things fall far too melodiously upon the ear, to be wholly deficient in meaning.
ABRAZZA—Your gentle minstrel, this must be, my lord. But Babbalanja, the Koztanza lacks cohesion; it is wild, unconnected, all episode.
BABBALANJA—And so is Mardi itself:—nothing but episodes ”