THE WAVES

RIEND, is not the sea a wonderful thing? It is swayed by
the moon, disturbed with currents, buffeted by winds, and
yet remains so constant. There is an infinite variety

strangely harmonized with repetition. There is baffling complexity
yielding to mobile simplicity. A thousand broken forms swelling

one great rhythm.

My pardon, sir, you will excuse an old man. The sea means much
to me. I like to speak of it. Words cannot chase its waves as your
eyes can.

Am [a sailor? No, I have made few trips on the sea. __

What foam! Did you see that? ’Twas like an animal leaping to
break its chains and falling back. See, it leaps again. The sea is all
alive. You say it is alive with fish? You miss my meaning. You
are a fisherman, then? You love the sea? Full of fish. ’Tis not the
sea that you love, but your stomach.
Pray what is that you are doing? A mixture to smear the nets. And
why? Well, if you paid so much for it and the old witch thinks it
is so potent, may the devil send you luck. Has it served? You
mixed it wrong last time? Perhaps a knowledge of tides and places
would do better? Oh, I do not doubt it is good. :

Have you been watching the waves breaking on that rock yonder?
Every time a different form arose, and yet every time it seemed the
same. The seais supreme. .

You say we master it? Crossed in an open boat, did he? Waves
larger than those? Then it was only their caprice that they bore
him up. Oh, no doubt he was a clever man.

Friend, did you ever hear of Andrea Mantanio, the silk merchant?
I suppose his wealth has spread his name. Clinking gold is the
world’s loudest sound. He is my best friend and at times my worst
enemy.

He loved the sea. I know his life as my own. He was like those
waves. They seem to strike the sky and break the clouds, yet in
reality they are no higher than this beach on which we stand.
When he was a little boy he used to sit and watch those waves. He
used to draw them in the sand. He loved the waves and the grey
gulls too. They were so much like the waves. He put these too
into his picture, chasing the waves or being chased. Then the clouds
that scurried past. All in one big drawing.

Day after day. His mother asked him sometimes where he went.
His father, a rich cloth merchant, deep in his business, did not care.
So he watched the waves and drew them. ‘Then the tide would
come in and wash away his work. He would sit on the rocks and

[21]