Read Ebook: The Story of a Round-House and Other Poems by Masefield John

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Ebook has 651 lines and 33889 words, and 14 pages

The Captain took his sights--a mate below Noted the times; they shouted to each other, The Captain quick with "Stop," the answer slow, Repeating slowly one height then another. The swooping clipper stumbled through the smother, The ladder brasses in the sunlight burned, The Dauber waited till the Captain turned.

There stood the Dauber, humbled to the bone, Waiting to speak. The Captain let him wait, Glanced at the course, and called in even tone, "What is the man there wanting, Mr. Mate?" The logship clattered on the grating straight, The reel rolled to the scuppers with a clatter, The Mate came grim: "Well, Dauber, what's the matter?"

"Please, sir, they spoiled my drawings." "Who did?" "They." "Who's they?" "I don't quite know, sir." "Don't quite know, sir? Then why are you aft to talk about it, hey? Whom d'you complain of?" "No one." "No one?" "No, sir." "Well, then, go forward till you've found them. Go, sir. If you complain of someone, then I'll see. Now get to hell! and don't come bothering me."

"But, sir, they washed them off, and some they cut. Look here, sir, how they spoiled them." "Never mind. Go shove your head inside the scuttle butt, And that will make you cooler. You will find Nothing like water when you're mad and blind. Where were the drawings? in your chest, or where?" "Under the long-boat, sir; I put them there."

"Under the long-boat, hey? Now mind your tip. I'll have the skids kept clear with nothing round them; The long-boat ain't a store in this here ship. Lucky for you it wasn't I who found them. If I had seen them, Dauber, I'd have drowned them. Now you be warned by this. I tell you plain-- Don't stow your brass-rags under boats again.

"Go forward to your berth." The Dauber turned. The listeners down below them winked and smiled, Knowing how red the Dauber's temples burned, Having lost the case about his only child. His work was done to nothing and defiled, And there was no redress: the Captain's voice Spoke, and called "Painter," making him rejoice.

The Captain and the Mate conversed together. "Drawings, you tell me, Mister?" "Yes, sir; views: Wiped off with turps, I gather that's his blether. He says they're things he can't afford to lose. He's Dick, who came to sea in dancing shoes, And found the dance a bear dance. They were hidden Under the long-boat's chocks, which I've forbidden."

"Wiped off with turps?" The Captain sucked his lip. "Who did it, Mister?" "Reefers, I suppose; Them devils do the most pranks in a ship; The round-house might have done it, Cook or Bose." "I can't take notice of it till he knows. How does he do his work?" "Well, no offence; He tries; he does his best. He's got no sense."

"Painter," the Captain called; the Dauber came. "What's all this talk of drawings? What's the matter?" "They spoiled my drawings, sir." "Well, who's to blame? The long-boat's there for no one to get at her; You broke the rules, and if you choose to scatter Gear up and down where it's no right to be, And suffer as result, don't come to me.

"Your place is in the round-house, and your gear Belongs where you belong. Who spoiled your things? Find out who spoiled your things and fetch him here." "But, sir, they cut the canvas into strings." "I want no argument nor questionings. Go back where you belong and say no more, And please remember that you're not on shore."

The Dauber touched his brow and slunk away-- They eyed his going with a bitter eye. "Dauber," said Sam, "what did the Captain say?" The Dauber drooped his head without reply. "Go forward, Dauber, and enjoy your cry." The Mate limped to the rail; like little feet Over his head the drumming reef-points beat.

The Dauber reached the berth and entered in. Much mockery followed after as he went, And each face seemed to greet him with the grin Of hounds hot following on a creature spent. "Aren't you a fool?" each mocking visage meant. "Who did it, Dauber? What did Captain say? It is a crime, and there'll be hell to pay."

He bowed his head, the house was full of smoke; The Sails was pointing shackles on his chest. "Lord, Dauber, be a man and take a joke"-- He puffed his pipe--"and let the matter rest. Spit brown, my son, and get a hairy breast; Get shoulders on you at the crojick braces, And let this painting business go to blazes.

"What good can painting do to anyone? I don't say never do it; far from that-- No harm in sometimes painting just for fun. Keep it for fun, and stick to what you're at. Your job's to fill your bones up and get fat; Rib up like Barney's bull, and thick your neck. Throw paints to hell, boy; you belong on deck."

"That's right," said Chips; "it's downright good advice. Painting's no good; what good can painting do Up on a lower topsail stiff with ice, With all your little fish-hooks frozen blue? Painting won't help you at the weather clew, Nor pass your gaskets for you, nor make sail. Painting's a balmy job not worth a nail."

The Dauber did not answer; time was passing. He pulled his easel out, his paints, his stool. The wind was dropping, and the sea was glassing-- New realms of beauty waited for his rule; The draught out of the crojick kept him cool. He sat to paint, alone and melancholy. "No turning fools," the Chips said, "from their folly."

He dipped his brush and tried to fix a line, And then came peace, and gentle beauty came, Turning his spirit's water into wine, Lightening his darkness with a touch of flame: O, joy of trying for beauty, ever the same, You never fail, your comforts never end; O, balm of this world's way; O, perfect friend!

They lost the Trades soon after; then came calm, Light little gusts and rain, which soon increased To glorious northers shouting out a psalm At seeing the bright blue water silver fleeced; Hornwards she rushed, trampling the seas to yeast. There fell a rain-squall in a blind day's end When for an hour the Dauber found a friend.

Out of the rain the voices called and passed, The stay-sails flogged, the tackle yanked and shook. Inside the harness-room a lantern cast Light and wild shadows as it ranged its hook. The watch on deck was gathered in the nook, They had taken shelter in that secret place, Wild light gave wild emotions to each face.

Under the poop-break, sheltering from the rain, The Dauber sketched some likeness of the room, A note to be a prompting to his brain, A spark to make old memory reillume. "Dauber," said someone near him in the gloom, "How goes it, Dauber?" It was reefer Si. "There's not much use in trying to keep dry."

They sat upon the sail-room doorway coaming, The lad held forth like youth, the Dauber listened To how the boy had had a taste for roaming, And what the sea is said to be and isn't. Where the dim lamplight fell the wet deck glistened. Si said the Horn was still some weeks away, "But tell me, Dauber, where d'you hail from? Eh?"

The rain blew past and let the stars appear; The seas grew larger as the moonlight grew; For half an hour the ring of heaven was clear, Dusty with moonlight, grey rather than blue; In that great moon the showing stars were few. The sleepy time-boy's feet passed overhead. "I come from out past Gloucester," Dauber said;

"Not far from Pauntley, if you know those parts; The place is Spital Farm, near Silver Hill, Above a trap-hatch where a mill-stream starts. We had the mill once, but we've stopped the mill; My dad and sister keep the farm on still. We're only tenants, but we've rented there, Father and son, for over eighty year.

"Father has worked the farm since grandfer went; It means the world to him; I can't think why. They bleed him to the last half-crown for rent, And this and that have almost milked him dry. The land's all starved; if he'd put money by, And corn was up, and rent was down two-thirds.... But then they aren't, so what's the use of words.

"Yet still he couldn't bear to see it pass To strangers, or to think a time would come When other men than us would mow the grass, And other names than ours have the home. Some sorrows come from evil thought, but some Comes when two men are near, and both are blind To what is generous in the other's mind.

"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 , 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.

"'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 hundred-fold.'

"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.

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