Dauber IV

Our of the air a time of quiet came,Calm fell upon the heaven like a drouth;The brass sky watched the brassy water flame.Drowsed as a snail the clipper loitered southSlowly, 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 blowsWhen billows are at peace and ships are drifting;With mighty jerks that set the shadows shifting,The courses tugged their tethers: a blue hazeDrifted 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 drewAs all men draw, keen to the shaken soulTo give a hint that might suggest the whole.

A naked seaman washing a red shirtSat 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 rollOn 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 SaintsWatching 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 stoodBehind him, jeering; then the Sails beganSniggering 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 crowdStood at his elbow, muttering as he drew;The Bosun, turning to them, spoke aloud,"This is the ship that never got there. YouLook 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 rightDaubing 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 disputeWhat 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 MatePaints 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? IMean 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 understandWhich task will bear the light best on God's hand."