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白鲸|Moby Dick (The Whale)

7．生死之念|CHAPTER 7. The Chapel.

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 赫尔曼·麦尔维尔] 阅读：[12000]
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新贝德福有个捕鲸者的教堂，就要扬帆远航的捕鲸者们在礼拜天的时候都要到这个教堂来，我也不例外。

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雪雨飘然而至，我裹上我那件熊皮外套，走进了雨雪之中的教堂。

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教堂里有几个水手、几个水手的妻子和几个水手的遗孀。

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外面雨雪萧萧，里面却是一片令人窒息的寂静。就要离别的人们沉浸在一种默然的哀伤之中，各人都有各人的心思，这些心思却笼罩在同样一种凄凉之中。

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牧师还没有来，他所站立的讲坛空空的。讲坛两侧镶在墙上的石碑却无声地宣讲着：

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约翰·塔尔伯特之碑

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约翰·塔尔伯特，在一八三六年十一月一日，于寂寞岛畔的巴塔哥尼亚海面，失足落海，终年一十八岁。

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姐姐特立此碑为念

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罗伯特·朗，威利斯·埃德利

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纳森·赫尔曼，沃尔特·坎尼

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塞恩·梅亚，塞缨尔·克拉克之碑

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上述六人均为“伊莱扎号”船员，在一八三九年十二月三十日，于太平洋海面被一巨鲸掠入大海。

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幸免于难的船员特立此碑为念

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伊齐基尔·哈代船长之碑

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在一八三二年八月三日，于日本海为一抹香鲸所害。

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未亡人立此碑为念

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我拍掉头上的冰碴子、抖掉外套上的雨雪，坐在了门边的一个座位上。一回头，魁魁格竟然就坐在我身边！

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这里庄严肃穆的气氛显然影响了他，他脸上有一种犹疑的神色，好奇心被逗了起来。

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教堂里这么多人，只有一个魁魁格注意到了我的到来，因为只有他不识字，没有像别人那样念碑上的字。

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我不敢肯定这碑上的人与教堂里的人有什么亲属关系，但是碑上的人们的遭遇可以肯定是捕鲸者们无可避免的，你只要出了海，随时都有那样的危险。所以教堂里这些显然都与捕鲸有直接或间接的关系的人们，面对这样的文字，无不忧伤。

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郁积在心中的忧伤幻化成沉重的无声无息，使每一个面对并无骨灰的碑文的人，陷入无休无止的凄怆！

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啊，啮蚀人心灵的文字啊，你是那么冷硬无情，不为人间的一切所动！

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死，噢，我们为什么要在昨天动身前往阴间去的人的名字前面，加上这么一个含义深长却无情无意的字呢？如果他去的是遥远的东印度群岛，那就没必要加上这个字了；如果他死了，未亡人会得到死亡保险金；而在六千年前就死了的亚当却还活跃在人们的言语之中；另外，人们对生活在那个被人们认为是极乐世界的人总是放心不下；大家都希望死去的人永远沉默，如果那个荒坟野冡突然间发一声响，那就会引得倾城出动，愕然惶然。

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所有的这一切、围绕死亡的这一切并非毫无意义。

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坟冡的周围不仅有豺狼，还有思念；对于死亡的疑惧，竞是人类希望的源泉之一。

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在这样一个夹风带雨、雪花儿飘飘的早晨，天空是那么阴暗；朦胧中我读到了这些先我而去的捕鲸者们的命运，心情可想而知。

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是啊，以实玛利，你的命运也许和他们如出一辙啊！

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然而很快我就从这种哀婉的情绪中跳了出来：尽管这是个把头颅挂在标枪尖儿上的行业，但也正是它给人们带来在短时间内飞黄腾达的机会。

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生死之念也许你我都有些误会，现世中被称为我的影子的我，才是我的本体，我的身躯只是我本体的臭皮囊，如果谁要我的身躯，那好，拿走吧，有没有它无所谓！

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不要像水中的牡蛎看太阳，误以为混水就是稀薄的空气，灵魂与躯体的轨真孰伪需要你理性不断地关照。

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好了，为南塔开特三呼万岁吧，新生活就在眼前了。

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In this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman’s Chapel, and few are the moody fishermen, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who fail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.

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Returning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this special errand. The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving sleet and mist. Wrapping myself in my shaggy jacket of the cloth called bearskin, I fought my way against the stubborn storm. Entering, I found a small scattered congregation of sailors, and sailors’ wives and widows. A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by the shrieks of the storm. Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart from the other, as if each silent grief were insular and incommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived; and there these silent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble tablets, with black borders, masoned into the wall on either side the pulpit. Three of them ran something like the following, but I do not pretend to quote:—

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SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN TALBOT, Who, at the age of eighteen, was lost overboard, Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, November 1st, 1836. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS SISTER.

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SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN, WALTER CANNY, SETH MACY, AND SAMUEL GLEIG, Forming one of the boats’ crews OF THE SHIP ELIZA Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, On the Off-shore Ground in the PACIFIC, December 31st, 1839. THIS MARBLE Is here placed by their surviving SHIPMATES.

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SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF The late CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY, Who in the bows of his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, August 3d, 1833. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS WIDOW.

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Shaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated myself near the door, and turning sideways was surprised to see Queequeg near me. Affected by the solemnity of the scene, there was a wondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance. This savage was the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance; because he was the only one who could not read, and, therefore, was not reading those frigid inscriptions on the wall. Whether any of the relatives of the seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation, I knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery, and so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not the trappings of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that here before me were assembled those, in whose unhealing hearts the sight of those bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed afresh.

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Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say—here, here lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.

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In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included; why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands; how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.

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But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

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It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems—aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling—a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.

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