2
Next day was Sunday, his free painting day,
While the fine weather held, from eight till eight.
He rose when called at five, and did array
The round-house gear, and set the kit-bags straight
Then kneeling down, like housemaid at a grate,
He scrubbed the deck with sand until his knees
Were blue with dye from his wet dungarees.
Soon all was clean, his Sunday tasks were done;
His day was clear for painting as he chose.
The wetted decks were drying in the sun,
The men coiled up, or swabbed, or sought repose.
The drifts of silver arrows fell and rose
As flying fish took wing; the breakfast passed,
Wasting good time, but he was free at last.
Free for two hours and more to tingle deep,
Catching a likeness in a line or tint,
The canvas running up in a proud sweep,
Wind-wrinkled at the clews, and white like lint,
The glittering of the blue waves into glint;
Free to attempt it all, the proud ship's pawings,
The sea, the sky—he went to fetch his drawings.
Up to the deck-house top he quickly climbed,
He stooped to find them underneath the boat.
He found them all obliterated, slimed,
Blotted, erased, gone from him line and note.
They were all spoiled: a lump came in his throat,
Being vain of his attempts, and tender skinned—
Beneath the skylight watching reefers grinned.
He clambered down, holding the ruined things.
“Bosun,” he called, “look here, did you do these:
Wipe off my paints and cut them into strings,
And smear them till you can't tell chalk from cheese?
Don't stare, but did you do it? Answer, please.”
The Bosun turned: “I'll give you a thick ear!
Do it? I didn't. Get to hell from here!
“I touch your stinking daubs? The Dauber's daft.”
A crowd was gathering now to hear the fun;
The reefers tumbled out, the men laid aft,
The Cook blinked, cleaning a mess-kid in the sun.
“What 's up with Dauber now?” said everyone.
“Someone has spoiled my drawings—look at this!”
“Well, that 's a dirty trick, by God, it is!”
“It is,” said Sam, “a low-down dirty trick,
To spoil a fellow's work in such a way,
And if you catch him, Dauber, punch him sick,
For he deserves it, be he who he may.”
A seaman shook his old head wise and grey.
“It seems to me,” he said, “who ain't no judge,
Them drawings look much better now they're smudge.”
“Where were they, Dauber? On the deck-house? Where?”
“Under the life-boat, in a secret place.”
“The blackguard must have seen you put them there.
He is a swine, I'll tell him to his face:
I didn't think of anyone so base.”
“Nor I,” said Dauber. “There was six weeks' time
Just wasted in the drawings: it's a crime!”
“Well, don't you say we did it,” growled his mates,
“And as for crime, be damned! the things were smears—
Best overboard, like you, with shot for weights;
Thank God they're gone, and now go shake your ears.”
The Dauber listened, very near to tears.
“Dauber, if I were you,” said Sam again,
“I'd aft, and see the Captain and complain.”
A sigh came from the assembled seamen there.
Would he be such a fool for their delight
As go to tell the Captain? Would he dare?
And would the thunder roar, the lightning smite?
There was the Captain come to take a sight,
Handling his sextant by the chart-house aft.
The Dauber turned, the seamen thought him daft.
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!
While the fine weather held, from eight till eight.
He rose when called at five, and did array
The round-house gear, and set the kit-bags straight
Then kneeling down, like housemaid at a grate,
He scrubbed the deck with sand until his knees
Were blue with dye from his wet dungarees.
Soon all was clean, his Sunday tasks were done;
His day was clear for painting as he chose.
The wetted decks were drying in the sun,
The men coiled up, or swabbed, or sought repose.
The drifts of silver arrows fell and rose
As flying fish took wing; the breakfast passed,
Wasting good time, but he was free at last.
Free for two hours and more to tingle deep,
Catching a likeness in a line or tint,
The canvas running up in a proud sweep,
Wind-wrinkled at the clews, and white like lint,
The glittering of the blue waves into glint;
Free to attempt it all, the proud ship's pawings,
The sea, the sky—he went to fetch his drawings.
Up to the deck-house top he quickly climbed,
He stooped to find them underneath the boat.
He found them all obliterated, slimed,
Blotted, erased, gone from him line and note.
They were all spoiled: a lump came in his throat,
Being vain of his attempts, and tender skinned—
Beneath the skylight watching reefers grinned.
He clambered down, holding the ruined things.
“Bosun,” he called, “look here, did you do these:
Wipe off my paints and cut them into strings,
And smear them till you can't tell chalk from cheese?
Don't stare, but did you do it? Answer, please.”
The Bosun turned: “I'll give you a thick ear!
Do it? I didn't. Get to hell from here!
“I touch your stinking daubs? The Dauber's daft.”
A crowd was gathering now to hear the fun;
The reefers tumbled out, the men laid aft,
The Cook blinked, cleaning a mess-kid in the sun.
“What 's up with Dauber now?” said everyone.
“Someone has spoiled my drawings—look at this!”
“Well, that 's a dirty trick, by God, it is!”
“It is,” said Sam, “a low-down dirty trick,
To spoil a fellow's work in such a way,
And if you catch him, Dauber, punch him sick,
For he deserves it, be he who he may.”
A seaman shook his old head wise and grey.
“It seems to me,” he said, “who ain't no judge,
Them drawings look much better now they're smudge.”
“Where were they, Dauber? On the deck-house? Where?”
“Under the life-boat, in a secret place.”
“The blackguard must have seen you put them there.
He is a swine, I'll tell him to his face:
I didn't think of anyone so base.”
“Nor I,” said Dauber. “There was six weeks' time
Just wasted in the drawings: it's a crime!”
“Well, don't you say we did it,” growled his mates,
“And as for crime, be damned! the things were smears—
Best overboard, like you, with shot for weights;
Thank God they're gone, and now go shake your ears.”
The Dauber listened, very near to tears.
“Dauber, if I were you,” said Sam again,
“I'd aft, and see the Captain and complain.”
A sigh came from the assembled seamen there.
Would he be such a fool for their delight
As go to tell the Captain? Would he dare?
And would the thunder roar, the lightning smite?
There was the Captain come to take a sight,
Handling his sextant by the chart-house aft.
The Dauber turned, the seamen thought him daft.
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!
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