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白鲸|Moby Dick (The Whale)

2．新贝德福之夜|CHAPTER 2. The Carpet-Bag.

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 赫尔曼·麦尔维尔] 阅读：[11997]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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几件衣服充作行囊，我便动了身。

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远离曼哈顿，奔到新贝德福，没赶上开往南塔开特的邮船，只得等下星期一了。

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这是一个星期六，12月的一个星期六，看来注定要无聊地度过一个周末了。

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一般去合恩角都这样走，从新贝德福上船。可我一定要从那捕鲸船最早的出发地南塔开特出发，尽管新贝德福已经很繁华，但它毕竟不是人们把第一只北美洲的死鲸拖上岸的地方。那些红种人士着，当年就是从南塔开特乘独木舟去海上捕鲸鱼的；还有那最早的捕鲸单桅帆船，船上载着鹅卵石——这就是他们捕鲸的武器——也是从南塔开特出发的。

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可如今要在新贝德福呆上两天，确切说是一天两夜，才能去南塔开特。吃饭睡觉问题怎么解决？

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在这寒风刺骨的夜晚，我伫立在冷冷清清的街头，举目无亲、走投无路的感觉袭上心头。

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摸摸兜里的那几个小钱，我心里默念着：以实玛利啊，不论命运把你引向哪里，你可都要先问问价钱啊！

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街道上结着厚厚的冰，冷硬坚滑，映着一个又一个店面里射出来的灯光。噢，这是“标枪客店”，这是“剑鱼客店”，杯盏之声伴着欢声笑语洒向窗外，我毫不犹豫地向前走着，他们太快活了，也太能花钱了。

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以实玛利啊，你还得向前走，你的那双破鞋可迈不进那高门槛，向那些不那么辉煌灿烂的地方走走吧，那地方的旅店虽然不是最好，但肯定是最便宜。

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街道两侧暗了下来，偶或有那么一两点烛光，鬼火般在黑暗中闪烁。远远地，我看见一座矮房子，房门大敞，一丝微光泄了出来。好像在很随意地欢迎着客人的到来。

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我几乎是理直气壮地走了进去，一堆垃圾毫不客气地绊了我一个跟斗，纷飞的灰尘差点憋死我！

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好啊，这里不是“标枪客店”、不是“剑鱼客店”，却是个“陷阱客店”。

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一阵刺耳的喧哗引得我爬起来以后迅速推开了第二道门，啊，一排黑脸齐刷刷地转向了我，另一位黑面孔的朋友正在讲台上拍打着一本书，让他的听众们集中精力。这是个黑人教堂。我退了出来，继续向前。

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在离码头很近的地方，一块白晃晃的招牌在蒙蒙的雾气里时隐时现，我紧走几步，在天空中一声什么怪鸟儿的嘎嘎怪叫中，我看清了牌子上的字：“鲸鱼客店——彼德·科芬。”科芬！（棺材的音译）鲸鱼！

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将这二者相连，棺材和鲸鱼，我感到后脊梁一阵冰凉。

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不过，据说南塔开特姓这个姓的人不少，那么这个彼德是从南塔开特来的喽！当然，更主要的是，从它破败的外观看，这家客店一定十分便宜，说不定还有味道不错的土咖啡呢！我迈步走了进去。

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这是座像得了半身不遂病的破房子，北风呼啸之中，一副摇摇欲坠的样子。

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不过，你如果在屋子里面而不是在屋子外面，两脚搭在炉子上，悠闲地喝着咖啡，那么这呼啸的风声就纯粹是一支催眠曲了。

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古代一位著名的作家曾经说过：“要判定这狂风冷雨的好坏，那要看下判断的人的位置：是隔着满是冰花儿的玻璃向外看，还是不隔着什么东西，里外一样冷地向外看。惟一的玻璃安装工就是死神！”

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这段话清晰地浮现在我眼前，我觉得我自己就是这座房子，两只眼睛便是两扇窗户。

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按照那位古代作家的话进行改良已经来不及了，宇宙的结构已经完工了，一切都无以改变了。怎么办？可怜的拉撒路只好在冷风中瑟缩颤抖了，颤抖得身上仅有的几条破布片也掉在了地上。而就在此时，那位身着紫袍的老财主则志得意满地叫道：“哈，冰天雪地狂风怒吼的景致多么怡人啊！星空灿烂、北极光斑斓，让那些谈论一年到头四季如春的什么鬼气候的家伙们见鬼去吧，我要用炭火创造一个夏天！”

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拉撒路却无法对着一样斑斓的北极光举起他冻青了的双手，他也许在遥想着赤道上的美丽吧！

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他多么想和赤道并排躺在一起啊！也许他没想那么远，只想就近找个火堆钻进去呢！

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老财主在由冰块围绕的温暖如春的宫殿中对屋外的拉撒路的快要冻死，并无任何感觉。他悠闲地踱着步，可并没喝酒。因为他是禁酒协会的会长，他不喝酒，只喝孤儿们的眼泪。

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算了，这么多感慨有什么用呢？反正要去捕鲸了，这样的事儿还多着呢，先进屋去看看吧。

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!’

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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