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白鲸|Moby Dick (The Whale)

10．心灵的蜜月|CHAPTER 10. A Bosom Friend.

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 赫尔曼·麦尔维尔] 阅读：[11990]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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从教堂回到旅店，看见魁魁格正坐在屋子里。

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他坐在炉火前，双脚搭在凳子上，两手捧着那个小偶像，用一把小刀轻轻地刮着偶像的鼻子，嘴里哼着他异教徒的歌。

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见我进来，他立刻将偶像藏了起来。拿了一本厚厚的书，放在膝盖上，一页一页翻起来。

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每翻那么一会儿——我想大约是五十页——他就会停一停，打个唿哨，故作吃惊地叫那么一声，然后又去翻书页，数到五十就又会停下来。

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他似乎不会数五十以上的数，五十这么大的数目已足以让他惊叹了。

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我颇感兴趣地注视着这个满脸伤疤的野人，没错，他的灵魂是质朴的。他的目光中充满了刚毅、勇敢和挚诚。

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他鲁直的外貌后面是一种无法抵御的高贵，这种高贵来自于他人不犯我、我不犯人的力量，他从不阿谀别人，也不勒索别人。

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似乎是因为刚剃了头，他的额头显得更广阔明亮了，也更显出了一种勇往直前的冲劲儿。

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不怕您见笑，我从魁魁格脸上看到了乔治·华盛顿的影子，他们的额头都有一个向后的坡角，他们的神气中有一种相似的高贵。魁魁格是一位野化了的华盛顿。

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他似乎一点也没注意到我，依然全神贯注地翻着书页。噢，想想昨夜的同榻而眠，想想今天早晨他亲昵地搭在我身上的胳膊，和现在这副冷淡的神情相比，真是有意思。

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说来也怪，野人们静默的神情与苏格拉底的表情真有点相似呢！

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魁魁格似乎对与别人交往没有兴趣，他和别人尽量不打交道，实在不打不行了，也控制在极为有限的范围内。

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这个远渡重洋地跑到这儿来的野人，独来独往而又恬然无争地生活在这群熙熙攘攘的捕鲸者之中，他的生活态度还真有点哲学味道呢，尽管他大概从来也没听说过哲学这个词儿。

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其实，哲学这种东西从来就不是能拿来自我标榜的。我一听见某某人自称为哲学家时，就有一种抑制不住的恶心感觉。

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炉火悠然地烧着，窗外的暴风雨奏着单调而又十分有规律的声音，我们俩寂静地坐着，一种奇异的感觉融化了我的心。

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狂乱的心绪和跃跃欲试的手脚突然都停止了颤抖，我被这个野人超度了。他不是文明人，也就没有文明人的狡诈和虚伪，他质朴无华的神色中有一种洞穿世事的光辉，不知不觉中我的心已被他征服了。

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噢，我要和一个异教徒做朋友了！

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我把凳子向他拉了拉，比划着和他套近乎。他开始依然不太理睬，我又讲了昨晚的事，他才问。

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“今晚还同睡？”

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“是的。”

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他笑了。

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这样，我便凑了过去，和他一起翻动著书页。

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我努力跟他讲着这本书的内容、用途和意义，而且结合这里各种各样的事情进行解释。

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他逐渐有了兴趣。

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我向他要烟，他立刻递上了烟斗斧和烟袋。我抽一口，他拿过去抽一口，烟斗就这样被不紧不慢地递来递去。

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这样，我们心中的所有芥蒂都烟消云散了，我们成了老朋友。

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他搂住我的腰，额头贴住我的额头，说我们成亲了，意思就是说我们成了最要好的朋友，他随时可以为我而死。

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这在文明社会中似乎完全是不可思议的，但对这个质朴的野人来说，却完全出之于内心中的自然。

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晚饭后，我们又亲密地谈了一阵子，便抽着烟一同走回了房问。

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他把那个香料做的人头送给了我，又从烟袋里掏出了三十多个银币，把它们堆到桌子上，笨拙地分成了两堆儿，把其中一堆儿推给了我。

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我刚要推辞，他已经硬把银币塞进了我的口袋儿。

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他掏出他的那个木偶，要做晚祷了。看样子，他要我跟他一起做，我心里很是犹豫。

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我可是个最正经的基督徒啊，怎么能和一个野人去拜他的木偶呢？可是拜了又会怎么样呢？那位胸怀宽广、气量宏大的神会对这个丑陋的小木偶心生嫉妒吗？

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以实玛利啊，你要想一想了！所谓崇拜就是执行上帝的旨意，上帝的旨意是什么？

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“我役于人，人役于我！”

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魁魁格是我的同胞兄弟了，让他役于我？也就是让他跟我一起去做那长老教派的崇拜仪式？似乎不大可能。

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那就只有我役于他了，就是和他一起去拜那个木偶了。可那样的话，我不就成了和魁魁格一样的木偶崇拜者了吗？

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魁魁格已经挪开了壁炉上的隔火板，把木偶放正了位置。

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我点了点儿刨花，把硬面包烤了烤。我们一起把面包呈给它，磕了三个头，又吻了吻它的头，这才心静气和地宽衣上床。

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我觉得朋友必须在床上才能说出推心置腹的心里话来，夫妻据说就是如此，听说还有些老夫老妻，就是在床上聊到天亮的。

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我跟魁魁格躺在床上，情投意合地聊着，开始了我们心灵的蜜月。

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Returning to the Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there quite alone; he having left the Chapel before the benediction some time. He was sitting on a bench before the fire, with his feet on the stove hearth, and in one hand was holding close up to his face that little negro idol of his; peering hard into its face, and with a jack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to himself in his heathenish way.

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But being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going to the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap began counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth page—as I fancied—stopping a moment, looking vacantly around him, and giving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He would then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number one each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was only by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his astonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.

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With much interest I sat watching him. Savage though he was, and hideously marred about the face—at least to my taste—his countenance yet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils. And besides all this, there was a certain lofty bearing about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not altogether maim. He looked like a man who had never cringed and never had had a creditor. Whether it was, too, that his head being shaved, his forehead was drawn out in freer and brighter relief, and looked more expansive than it otherwise would, this I will not venture to decide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an excellent one. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of General Washington’s head, as seen in the popular busts of him. It had the same long regularly graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were likewise very projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on top. Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed.

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Whilst I was thus closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be looking out at the storm from the casement, he never heeded my presence, never troubled himself with so much as a single glance; but appeared wholly occupied with counting the pages of the marvellous book. Considering how sociably we had been sleeping together the night previous, and especially considering the affectionate arm I had found thrown over me upon waking in the morning, I thought this indifference of his very strange. But savages are strange beings; at times you do not know exactly how to take them. At first they are overawing; their calm self-collectedness of simplicity seems a Socratic wisdom. I had noticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little, with the other seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever; appeared to have no desire to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances. All this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there was something almost sublime in it. Here was a man some twenty thousand miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is—which was the only way he could get there—thrown among people as strange to him as though he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship; always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman, he must have “broken his digester.”

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As I sat there in that now lonely room; the fire burning low, in that mild stage when, after its first intensity has warmed the air, it then only glows to be looked at; the evening shades and phantoms gathering round the casements, and peering in upon us silent, solitary twain; the storm booming without in solemn swells; I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This soothing savage had redeemed it. There he sat, his very indifference speaking a nature in which there lurked no civilized hypocrisies and bland deceits. Wild he was; a very sight of sights to see; yet I began to feel myself mysteriously drawn towards him. And those same things that would have repelled most others, they were the very magnets that thus drew me. I’ll try a pagan friend, thought I, since Christian kindness has proved but hollow courtesy. I drew my bench near him, and made some friendly signs and hints, doing my best to talk with him meanwhile. At first he little noticed these advances; but presently, upon my referring to his last night’s hospitalities, he made out to ask me whether we were again to be bedfellows. I told him yes; whereat I thought he looked pleased, perhaps a little complimented.

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We then turned over the book together, and I endeavored to explain to him the purpose of the printing, and the meaning of the few pictures that were in it. Thus I soon engaged his interest; and from that we went to jabbering the best we could about the various outer sights to be seen in this famous town. Soon I proposed a social smoke; and, producing his pouch and tomahawk, he quietly offered me a puff. And then we sat exchanging puffs from that wild pipe of his, and keeping it regularly passing between us.

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If there yet lurked any ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan’s breast, this pleasant, genial smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and left us cronies. He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; and when our smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country’s phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be. In a countryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have seemed far too premature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage those old rules would not apply.

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After supper, and another social chat and smoke, we went to our room together. He made me a present of his embalmed head; took out his enormous tobacco wallet, and groping under the tobacco, drew out some thirty dollars in silver; then spreading them on the table, and mechanically dividing them into two equal portions, pushed one of them towards me, and said it was mine. I was going to remonstrate; but he silenced me by pouring them into my trowsers’ pockets. I let them stay. He then went about his evening prayers, took out his idol, and removed the paper fireboard. By certain signs and symptoms, I thought he seemed anxious for me to join him; but well knowing what was to follow, I deliberated a moment whether, in case he invited me, I would comply or otherwise.

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I was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible Presbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in worshipping his piece of wood? But what is worship? thought I. Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and earth—pagans and all included—can possibly be jealous of an insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship?—to do the will of God—that is worship. And what is the will of God?—to do to my fellow man what I would have my fellow man to do to me—that is the will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolator. So I kindled the shavings; helped prop up the innocent little idol; offered him burnt biscuit with Queequeg; salamed before him twice or thrice; kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world. But we did not go to sleep without some little chat.

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How it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg—a cosy, loving pair.

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