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- BABBALANJA—Yoomy, Lombardo eschewed olives. Said he, “What fasting
soldier can fight? and the fight of all fights is to write.” In ten
days Lombardo had written—
ABRAZZA—Dashed off, you mean.
BABBALANJA—He never dashed off aught.
ABRAZZA—As you will.
BABBALANJA—In ten days, Lombardo had written full fifty folios; he
loved huge acres of vellum whereon to expatiate.
MEDIA—What then?
BABBALANJA—He read them over attentively; made a neat package of the
whole: and put it into the fire.
ALL—How?
MEDIA—What! these great geniuses writing trash?
ABRAZZA—I thought as much.
BABBALANJA—My lords, they abound in it! more than any other men in
Mardi. Genius is full of trash. But genius essays its best to keep it
to itself; and giving away its ore, retains the earth; whence, the too
frequent wisdom of its works, and folly of its life.
ABRAZZA—Then genius is not inspired, after all. How they must slave in
their mines! I weep to think of it.
BABBALANJA—My lord, all men are inspired; fools are inspired; your
highness is inspired; for the essence of all ideas is infused. Of
ourselves, and in ourselves, we originate nothing. When Lombardo set
about his work, he knew not what it would become. He did not build
himself in with plans; he wrote right on; and so doing, got deeper and
deeper into himself; and like a resolute traveler, plunging through
baffling woods, at last was rewarded for his toils. “In good time,”
saith he, in his autobiography, “I came out into a serene, sunny,
ravishing region; full of sweet scents, singing birds, wild plaints,
roguish laughs, prophetic voices. “Here we are at last, then,” he
cried; “I have created the creative.” And now the whole boundless
landscape stretched away. Lombardo panted; the sweat was on his brow;
he off mantle; braced himself; sat within view of the ocean; his face
to a cool rushing breeze; placed flowers before him; and gave himself
plenty of room. On one side was his ream of vellum—
ABBRAZZA—And on the other, a brimmed beaker.
BABBALANJA—No, your Highness; though he loved it, no wine for Lombardo
while actually at work.
MOHI—Indeed? Why, I ever thought that it was to the superior quality of
Lombardo’s punches, that Mardi was indebted for that abounding humor of
his.
BABBALANJA—Not so; he had another way of keeping himself well braced.
YOOMY—Quick! tell us the secret.
BABBALANJA—He never wrote by rush-light. His lamp swung in heaven.— He
rose from his East, with the sun; he wrote when all nature was alive.
MOHI—Doubtless, then, he always wrote with a grin; and none laughed
louder at his quips, than Lombardo himself.
BABBALANJA—Hear you laughter at the birth of a man child, old man? The
babe may have many dimples; not so, the parent. Lombardo was a hermit
to behold.
MEDIA—What! did Lombardo laugh with a long face?
BABBALANJA—His merriment was not always merriment to him, your
Highness. For the most part, his meaning kept him serious. Then he was
so intensely riveted to his work, he could not pause to laugh.
MOHI—My word for it; but he had a sly one, now and then.
BABBALANJA—For the nonce, he was not his own master: a mere amanuensis
writing by dictation.
YOOMY—Inspiration, that!
BABBALANJA.—Call it as you will, Yoomy, it was a sort of sleep- walking
of the mind. Lombardo never threw down his pen: it dropped from him;
and then, he sat disenchanted: rubbing his eyes; staring; and feeling
faint—sometimes, almost unto death.
MEDIA—But pray, Babbalanja, tell us how he made acquaintance with some
of those rare worthies, he introduces us to, in his Koztanza.
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