我把一两件衬衫塞进旧地毯袋里，夹在腋下，动身前往合恩角和太平洋。离开古老的曼哈顿好城，我如期抵达新贝德福德。那是十二月的一个星期六夜晚。得知开往南塔克特的小邮船已经启航，而要等到下星期一才有办法去那儿，我大失所望。
大多数准备去尝鲸鱼业苦头的年轻候选人都逗留在这同一座新贝德福德，再从那里上船出航，不过不妨说明，我本人可没打算这么做。因为我打定主意只乘南塔克特的船出海，因为那座声名远扬的古老岛屿上的一切，都带着一种酣畅、喧腾的劲儿，让我满心欢喜。此外，虽说新贝德福德近来逐渐垄断了捕鲸生意，可怜的老南塔克特在这方面如今已远远落后，然而南塔克特才是它的发源地——这迦太基的推罗城；第一头死去的美国鲸鱼就是在那里搁浅的。那些原住的捕鲸人，红种人，不是从南塔克特首次划着独木舟去追逐海中巨兽的吗？那第一艘冒险的小单桅船，据说是半载着进口鹅卵石驶出的——好朝鲸鱼扔过去，看它们近到什么程度才敢从船首斜桅投出鱼叉——不也正是从南塔克特出发的吗？
我在新贝德福德还得熬过一晚、一日，再接一晚，才能搭船去目的港，这期间食宿何处便成了操心的事。那是个极可疑、不，极黑暗凄惨的夜，冷得刺骨，了无生气。我在当地一个人也不认识。我用焦虑的抓钩探了探口袋，只捞出几枚银角儿——于是，以实玛利啊，我站在阴郁的街心，肩扛袋子，拿北边的幽暗和南边的漆黑两相比较，对自己说道：无论你去哪儿，以实玛利，凭你的明智决定今夜在何处投宿，我亲爱的以实玛利，务必先问清价钱，也别太挑剔。
我拖着迟疑的步子沿街走，路过“交叉鱼叉”的招牌——可那儿瞧着太贵太热闹了。再往前，“剑鱼客栈”亮红的窗里透出炽烈的光，仿佛把屋前的积雪坚冰都烤化了，因为别处都结着十英寸厚的冻霜，像硬沥青路面——我踢到 Flint 般的突起时格外吃力，因为久经磨损，靴底已惨不忍睹。又嫌太贵太热闹，我停了一瞬，望着街上大片亮光，听着里头玻璃杯叮当响。可走吧，以实玛利，我终于说，没听见吗？离门口远点；你那补过的靴子挡道了。于是我继续走。凭本能，我顺着通往水边的街走，因为那儿无疑最便宜，哪怕不最舒心。
好凄清的街！两旁不是房屋，是一块块黑，偶尔一支烛，像墓里游动的烛。在这周末深夜，那片城区几乎无人迹。但不久我见一处低矮宽房透出朦胧烟光，门敞着，像在邀人进。它漫不经心，似为公用；进去头桩事，我在门廊叫灰箱绊倒。哈！飞扬的灰几乎呛死我，我想，哈，这灰是毁灭城蛾摩拉的么？可“交叉鱼叉”和“剑鱼”都见过了——那这必是“陷阱”的招牌了。不过我爬起，听见里头的洪亮嗓音，推门又开了一道内门。
那像托非特坐着的大黑议会。百张黑脸转排盯来；更深处，黑判官在讲坛捶书。是黑人教堂；牧师经文讲黑暗之黑，及那里号哭切齿。哈，以实玛利，我退着嘟囔，这“陷阱”招牌下好不快活！
再走，终见码头不远有暗光，听空里凄厉吱呀；抬头，门上晃牌白漆淡画直喷雾柱，下书——“喷鲸客栈：彼得·科芬”。
科芬？——喷鲸？——这搭配颇不祥，我想。但据说南塔克特常姓这个，料这彼得是从那儿移来。光既暗，时既静，破木屋像从火烧区残骸拖来，晃牌穷酸吱呀，我想这正是贱宿好地，豌豆咖啡上品。
是个怪处——山墙老屋，一侧似瘫，哀倾。立尖寒角，暴风尤洛克利冬吼过可怜保罗的船。然尤洛克利冬对室内脚烤火候床者，是极悦微风。一古作家——其作唯我存世孤本——云：“论暴风尤洛克利冬，汝自霜在外的玻璃窗看，与自内外皆霜、死神独匠的无棂窗看，殊异。”然，我想，此语合理。是，眼为窗，身为屋。惜未塞缝嵌麻。然晚矣，宇宙已成，顶石已安，屑运百万年前。可怜拉撒路，齿击路缘为枕，抖破衣，塞耳衔穗，难避尤洛克利冬。尤洛克利冬！老财主红绸裹身云——（后更红）呸，好霜夜，猎户闪，北极光！彼东方夏室永暖，吾自炭造夏。
然拉撒路何想？举蓝手向北极光可暖？宁苏门答腊非此？宁横卧赤道，下火狱避霜？
拉撒路横路缘财门前，奇于冰山系摩鹿加。然财主如沙皇居叹冰宫，为禁酒会首，唯饮孤泪温。
然勿泣，将捕鲸，脂正多。刮霜足，看此“喷鲸”何地。
I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my
arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city
of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night
in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little
packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching
that place would offer, till the following Monday.
As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at
this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well
be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was
made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a
fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous
old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has
of late been gradually monopolising the business of whaling, and though
in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket
was her great original—the Tyre of this Carthage;—the place where the
first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket
did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes
to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did
that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with
imported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the whales, in
order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the
bowsprit?
Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me
in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a
matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a
very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold
and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had
sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,—So,
wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of
a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the
north with the darkness towards the south—wherever in your wisdom you
may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to
inquire the price, and don’t be too particular.
With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The
Crossed Harpoons”—but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further
on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came
such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and
ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay
ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,—rather weary for me,
when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from
hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most
miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one
moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of
the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don’t
you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are
stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets
that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not
the cheeriest inns.
Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand,
and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At
this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of
the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light
proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood
invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the
uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble
over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying
particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city,
Gomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and “The Sword-Fish?”—this, then
must needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked myself up and
hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior
door.
It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black
faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of
Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the
preacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping
and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing
out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The Trap!’
Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the
docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a
swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly
representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words
underneath—“The Spouter Inn:—Peter Coffin.”
Coffin?—Spouter?—Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought
I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this
Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and
the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated
little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here
from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a
poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very
spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.
It was a queer sort of place—a gable-ended old house, one side palsied
as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner,
where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than
ever it did about poor Paul’s tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless,
is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the
hob quietly toasting for bed. “In judging of that tempestuous wind
called Euroclydon,” says an old writer—of whose works I possess the
only copy extant—“it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou
lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the
outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where
the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only
glazier.” True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my
mind—old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are
windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn’t
stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint
here and there. But it’s too late to make any improvements now. The
universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted
off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth
against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with
his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a
corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the
tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken
wrapper—(he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty
night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their
oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the
privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.
But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up
to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra
than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the
line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in
order to keep out this frost?
Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the
door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be
moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a
Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a
temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.
But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there
is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted
feet, and see what sort of a place this “Spouter” may be.
