The Gilder

Penetrating further and further into the heart of the Japanese cruising ground, the Pequod was soon all astir in the fishery. Often, in mild, pleasant weather, for twelve, fifteen, eighteen, and twenty hours on the stretch, they were engaged in the boats, steadily pulling, or sailing, or paddling after the whales, or for an interlude of sixty or seventy minutes calmly awaiting their uprising; though with but small success for their pains.

As the Pequod sailed deeper into the heart of the Japanese whaling grounds, the ship was soon busy hunting whales. Often, in mild, pleasant weather, the crew spent twelve, fifteen, eighteen, or twenty hours at a stretch in the boats. They steadily rowed, sailed, or paddled after whales. Sometimes they calmly waited sixty or seventy minutes for the whales to surface. But they had little success for all their efforts.

At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon smooth, slow heaving swells; seated in his boat, light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearth-stone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean’s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.

At such times, the sun is gentle, and you float all day on smooth, slow swells. You sit in your boat, which is as light as a birch canoe, so close to the soft waves that they purr against the side like cats by a hearth. These are times of dreamy quiet, when the calm beauty and brilliance of the ocean’s surface make you forget the tiger heart beating beneath it. You would rather not remember that this velvet paw conceals a merciless fang.

These are the times, when in his whale-boat the rover softly feels a certain filial, confident, land-like feeling towards the sea; that he regards it as so much flowery earth; and the distant ship revealing only the tops of her masts, seems struggling forward, not through high rolling waves, but through the tall grass of a rolling prairie: as when the western emigrants’ horses only show their erected ears, while their hidden bodies widely wade through the amazing verdure.

At such times, a wanderer in his whaleboat feels a gentle, trusting affection for the sea, as if it were his mother and as solid as land. He sees the sea as a field of flowers. Only the tops of the distant ship’s masts are visible. The ship seems to be struggling forward through the tall grass of a rolling prairie, not through high, rolling waves. It is like the horses of settlers traveling west: only their upright ears show as their hidden bodies wade through the vast, astonishing greenery.

The long-drawn virgin vales; the mild blue hill-sides; as over these there steals the hush, the hum; you almost swear that play-wearied children lie sleeping in these solitudes, in some glad May-time, when the flowers of the woods are plucked. And all this mixes with your most mystic mood; so that fact and fancy, half-way meeting, interpenetrate, and form one seamless whole.

The long, untouched valleys and gentle blue hillsides grow quiet, filled with a soft hum. You could almost swear that children, tired from playing, lie asleep in these lonely places. It seems to be a happy time in May, when woodland flowers are picked. And all of this blends with your most mystical mood, so that fact and imagination meet halfway and mingle, forming one seamless whole.

Nor did such soothing scenes, however temporary, fail of at least as temporary an effect on Ahab. But if these secret golden keys did seem to open in him his own secret golden treasuries, yet did his breath upon them prove but tarnishing.

These soothing scenes, though temporary, had an effect on Ahab that lasted at least as long. But if these secret golden keys seemed to open his own secret golden treasuries, his breath only tarnished them.

Oh, grassy glades! oh, ever vernal endless landscapes in the soul; in ye,—though long parched by the dead drought of the earthy life,—in ye, men yet may roll, like young horses in new morning clover; and for some few fleeting moments, feel the cool dew of the life immortal on them. Would to God these blessed calms would last. But the mingled, mingling threads of life are woven by warp and woof: calms crossed by storms, a storm for every calm. There is no steady unretracing progress in this life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause:—through infancy’s unconscious spell, boyhood’s thoughtless faith, adolescence’ doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then disbelief, resting at last in manhood’s pondering repose of If. But once gone through, we trace the round again; and are infants, boys, and men, and Ifs eternally. Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling’s father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.

Oh, grassy clearings! Oh, endless landscapes of eternal spring within the soul! Though long parched by the dead drought of earthly life, you remain places where men can still roll like young horses in fresh morning clover. For a few fleeting moments, they may feel the cool dew of immortal life upon them. God grant that these blessed calms would last. But the intermingling threads of life are woven together like warp and weft: calms crossed by storms, a storm for every calm. In this life, we do not move steadily forward without retracing our steps. We do not pass through fixed stages and finally come to rest. We do not simply pass from the unconscious spell of infancy to the thoughtless faith of boyhood, then to the doubt of adolescence, which is everyone’s fate. Nor do we simply pass from doubt to skepticism, then disbelief, and finally settle into the thoughtful uncertainty of manhood’s “If.” Instead, once we have passed through the cycle, we follow it again. We are infants, boys, men, and “Ifs” forever. Where is the final harbor from which we never set sail again? Through what joyous heavens does the world sail, a world of which even the weariest will never grow weary? Where is the father of the abandoned child hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unmarried mothers die giving birth to them. The secret of their father’s identity lies in their mothers’ graves. We too must go to the grave to learn that secret.

And that same day, too, gazing far down from his boat’s side into that same golden sea, Starbuck lowly murmured:—

That same day, Starbuck gazed far down from the side of his boat into the same golden sea and murmured softly:

“Loveliness unfathomable, as ever lover saw in his young bride’s eye!—Tell me not of thy teeth-tiered sharks, and thy kidnapping cannibal ways. Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep down and do believe.”

“Beauty as fathomless as any lover ever saw in his young bride’s eyes! Do not tell me about your sharks with their rows of teeth, or your ways of kidnapping and cannibalism. Let faith drive out fact. Let imagination drive out memory. I look deep down and believe.”

And Stubb, fish-like, with sparkling scales, leaped up in that same golden light:—

And Stubb, like a fish with sparkling scales, leaped up in the same golden light:

“I am Stubb, and Stubb has his history; but here Stubb takes oaths that he has always been jolly!”

“I am Stubb, and Stubb has a history. But Stubb swears he has always been cheerful!”