THE ESSENTIAL MELVILLE - 160+ Titles in One Edition - Герман Мелвилл

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on that very island, at that very time, and saw that identical old lady in the very midst of those abdominal tribulations.

      “That she was really in great distress,” he went on to say, “was plainly to be seen; but that in that particular instance, your Plujii had any hand in tormenting her, I had some boisterous doubts. For, hearing that an hour or two previous she had been partaking of some twenty unripe bananas, I rather fancied that that circumstance might have had something to do with her sufferings. But however it was, all the herb-leeches on the island would not have altered her own opinions on the subject.”

      “No,” said Braid–Beard; “a post-mortem examination would not have satisfied her ghost.”

      “Curious to relate,” he continued, “the people of that island never abuse the Plujii, notwithstanding all they suffer at their hands, unless under direct provocation; and a settled matter of faith is it, that at such times all bitter words and hasty objurgations are entirely overlooked, nay, pardoned on the spot, by the unseen genii against whom they are directed.”

      “Magnanimous Plujii!” cried Media. “But, Babbalanja, do you, who run a tilt at all things, suffer this silly conceit to be uttered with impunity in your presence? Why so silent?”

      “I have been thinking, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “that though the people of that island may at times err, in imputing their calamities to the Plujii, that, nevertheless, upon the whole, they indulge in a reasonable belief. For, Plujii or no Plujii, it is undeniable, that in ten thousand ways, as if by a malicious agency, we mortals are woefully put out and tormented; and that, too, by things in themselves so exceedingly trivial, that it would seem almost impiety to ascribe them to the august gods. No; there must exist some greatly inferior spirits; so insignificant, comparatively, as to be overlooked by the supernal powers; and through them it must be, that we are thus grievously annoyed. At any rate; such a theory would supply a hiatus in my system of meta-physics.”

      “Well, peace to the Plujii,” said Media; “they trouble not me.”

      NORA–BAMMA

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      Still onward gliding, the lagoon a calm.

      Hours pass; and full before us, round and green, a Moslem turban by us floats — Nora–Bamma, Isle of Nods.

      Noon-tide rolls its flood. Vibrates the air, and trembles. And by illusion optical, thin-draped in azure haze, drift here and there the brilliant lands: swans, peacock-plumaged, sailing through the sky. Down to earth hath heaven come; hard telling sun-clouds from the isles.

      And high in air nods Nora–Bamma. Nid-nods its tufted summit like three ostrich plumes; its beetling crags, bent poppies, shadows, willowy shores, all nod; its streams are murmuring down the hills; its wavelets hush the shore.

      Who dwells in Nora–Bamma? Dreamers, hypochondriacs, somnambulists; who, from the cark and care of outer Mardi fleeing, in the poppy’s jaded odors, seek oblivion for the past, and ecstasies to come.

      Open-eyed, they sleep and dream; on their roof-trees, grapes unheeded drop. In Nora–Bamma, whispers are as shouts; and at a zephyr’s breath, from the woodlands shake the leaves, as of humming-birds, a flight.

      All this spake Braid–Beard, of the isle. How that none ere touched its strand, without rendering instant tribute of a nap; how that those who thither voyaged, in golden quest of golden gourds, fast dropped asleep, ere one was plucked; waking not till night; how that you must needs rub hard your eyes, would you wander through the isle; and how that silent specters would be met, haunting twilight groves, and dreamy meads; hither gliding, thither fading, end or purpose none.

      True or false, so much for Mohi’s Nora Bamma.

      But as we floated on, it looked the place described. We yawned, and yawned, as crews of vessels may; as in warm Indian seas, their winnowing sails all swoon, when by them glides some opium argosie.

      IN A CALM, HAUTIA’S HERALDS APPROACH

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      “How still!” cried Babbalanja. “This calm is like unto Oro’s everlasting serenity, and like unto man’s last despair.”

      But now the silence was broken by a strange, distant, intermitted melody in the water.

      Gazing over the side, we saw naught but a far-darting ray in its depths.

      Then Yoomy, before buried in a reverie, burst forth with a verse, sudden as a jet from a Geyser.

      Like the fish of the bright and twittering fin,

      Bright fish! diving deep as high soars the lark,

      So, far, far, far, doth the maiden swim,

      Wild song, wild light, in still ocean’s dark.

      “What maiden, minstrel?” cried Media.

      “None of these,” answered Yoomy, pointing out a shallop gliding near.

      “The damsels three:— Taji, they pursue you yet.” That still canoe drew nigh, the Iris in its prow.

      Gliding slowly by, one damsel flung a Venus-car, the leaves yet fresh.

      Said Yoomy —“Fly to love.”

      The second maiden flung a pallid blossom, buried in hemlock leaves.

      Said Yoomy, starting —“I have wrought a death.”

      Then came showering Venus-cars, and glorious moss-roses numberless, and odorous handfuls of Verbena.

      Said Yoomy —“Yet fly, oh fly to me: all rosy joys and sweets are mine.”

      Then the damsels floated on.

      “Was ever queen more enigmatical?” cried Media —“Love — death — joy, — fly to me? But what says Taji?”

      “That I turn not back for Hautia; whoe’er she be, that wild witch I contemn.”

      “Then spread our pinions wide! a breeze! up sails! ply paddles all! Come, Flora’s flute, float forth a song.”

      To pieces picking the thorny roses culled from Hautia’s gifts, and holding up their blighted cores, thus plumed and turbaned Yoomy sang, leaning against the mast:—

      Oh! royal is the rose,

      But barbed with many a dart;

      Beware, beware the rose,

      ’Tis cankered at the heart.

      Sweet, sweet the sunny down,

      Oh! lily, lily, lily down!

      Sweet, sweet, Verbena’s bloom!

      Oh! pleasant, gentle, musky bloom!

      Dread, dread the sunny down;

      Lo! lily-hooded asp;

      Blooms, blooms no more Verbena;

      White-withered in your clasp.

      BRAID–BEARD REHEARSES THE ORIGIN OF THE ISLE OF ROGUES

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      Judge not things by their names. This, the maxim illustrated respecting the isle toward which we were sailing.

      Ohonoo was its designation, in other words the Land of Rogues. So what but a nest of villains and pirates could one fancy it to be: a downright Tortuga, swarming with “Brethren of the coast,”— such as Montbars, L’Ollonais, Bartolomeo, Peter of Dieppe,

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