Part 17 (1/2)

That they, unless through Him, do nought at all, And must submit: what other use in things?

'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder joint That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth ”I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, I make the cry my maker cannot make With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!”

Would not I smash it with my foot? So He.

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease?

Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that, What knows,--the something over Setebos That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance.

There may be something quiet o'er His head, Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, Since both derive from weakness in some way.

I joy because the quails come; would not joy Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth.

'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, But never spends much thought nor care that way.

It may look up, work up,--the worse for those It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, Who, making Himself feared through what he does, Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar To what is quiet and hath happy life; Next looks down here, and out of very spite Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, These good things to match those as hips do grapes.

'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport.

Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: Vexed, 'st.i.tched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe The eyed skin of a supple oncelot; And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, And saith she is Miranda and my wife: 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban; A bitter heart that bides its time and bites.

'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He.

His dam held that the Quiet made all things Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so.

Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex.

Had He meant other, while His hand was in, Why not make h.o.r.n.y eyes no thorn could p.r.i.c.k, Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, Like an orc's armor? Ay,--so spoil His sport!

He is the One now: only He doth all.

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him.

Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why?

'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes.

Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, By no means for the love of what is worked.

'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world When all goes right, in this safe summer-time, And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, Than trying what to do with wit and strength.

'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs, And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill.

No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 'Shall some day knock it down again; so He.

'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof!

One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope.

He hath a spite against me, that I know, Just as He favors Prosper, who knows why?

So it is, all the same, as well I find.

'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, And licked the whole labor flat: so much for spite.

'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade: Often they scatter sparkles: there is force!

'Dug up a newt He may have envied once And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone.

Please Him and hinder this?--What Prosper does?

Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He!

There is the sport: discover how or die!

All need not die, for of the things o' the isle Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; Those at His mercy,--why, they please Him most When ... when ... well, never try the same way twice!

Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth.

You must not know His ways, and play Him off, Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself: 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears, But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, And when I threat, bites stoutly in defense: 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, Curls up into a ball, pretending death For fright at my approach: the two ways please.

But what would move my choler more than this, That either creature counted on its life To-morrow and next day and all days to come, Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart, ”Because he did so yesterday with me, And otherwise with such another brute, So must he do henceforth and always.”--Ay?

'Would teach the reasoning couple what ”must” means!

'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He.

'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, And we shall have to live in fear of Him So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change, If He have done His best, make no new world To please Him more, so leave off watching this,-- If He surprise not even the Quiet's self Some strange day,--or, suppose, grow into it As grubs grow b.u.t.terflies: else, here are we, And there is He, and nowhere help at all.

'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop.

His dam held different, that after death He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: Idly! He doth His worst in this our life, Giving just respite lest we die through pain, Saving last pain for worst,--with which, an end.

Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself, Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, Bask on the pompion-bell above; kills both.

'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball On head and tail as if to save their lives: Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.

Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, And always, above all else, envies Him; Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, And never speaks his mind save housed as now: Outside, groans, curses. If He caught me here, O'erheard this speech, and asked ”What chucklest at?”