Moby Dick

I, Ishmael, was one of that crew; my shouts had gone up with the rest; my oath had been welded with theirs; and stronger I shouted, and more did I hammer and clinch my oath, because of the dread in my soul. A wild, mystical, sympathetical feeling was in me; Ahab’s quenchless feud seemed mine. With greedy ears I learned the history of that murderous monster against whom I and all the others had taken our oaths of violence and revenge.

I, Ishmael, was one of that crew. I had shouted with the others and joined them in their oath. Because of the dread in my soul, I shouted louder and swore my oath with even greater force. A wild, mystical feeling of sympathy came over me. Ahab’s unending feud seemed to be mine as well. I listened eagerly as I learned the history of the murderous monster. I and all the others had sworn to use violence and take revenge against the monster.

For some time past, though at intervals only, the unaccompanied, secluded White Whale had haunted those uncivilized seas mostly frequented by the Sperm Whale fishermen. But not all of them knew of his existence; only a few of them, comparatively, had knowingly seen him; while the number who as yet had actually and knowingly given battle to him, was small indeed. For, owing to the large number of whale-cruisers; the disorderly way they were sprinkled over the entire watery circumference, many of them adventurously pushing their quest along solitary latitudes, so as seldom or never for a whole twelvemonth or more on a stretch, to encounter a single news-telling sail of any sort; the inordinate length of each separate voyage; the irregularity of the times of sailing from home; all these, with other circumstances, direct and indirect, long obstructed the spread through the whole world-wide whaling-fleet of the special individualizing tidings concerning Moby Dick. It was hardly to be doubted, that several vessels reported to have encountered, at such or such a time, or on such or such a meridian, a Sperm Whale of uncommon magnitude and malignity, which whale, after doing great mischief to his assailants, had completely escaped them; to some minds it was not an unfair presumption, I say, that the whale in question must have been no other than Moby Dick. Yet as of late the Sperm Whale fishery had been marked by various and not unfrequent instances of great ferocity, cunning, and malice in the monster attacked; therefore it was, that those who by accident ignorantly gave battle to Moby Dick; such hunters, perhaps, for the most part, were content to ascribe the peculiar terror he bred, more, as it were, to the perils of the Sperm Whale fishery at large, than to the individual cause. In that way, mostly, the disastrous encounter between Ahab and the whale had hitherto been popularly regarded.

For some time, the solitary White Whale had appeared from time to time in the wild seas where sperm whale fishermen mostly hunted. But not all of them knew he existed. Relatively few had knowingly seen him, and very few had knowingly fought him. News that identified Moby Dick as a particular whale was slow to spread through the worldwide whaling fleet. There were many whaling ships, scattered without order across the oceans. Many ventured into lonely waters, rarely or never meeting another ship that could bring news for a year or more. Each voyage was exceedingly long, and ships left home at irregular times. All these factors, along with others, direct and indirect, long held up the spread of news about Moby Dick. Several ships had reported encounters with an unusually large and vicious sperm whale at particular times or places. The whale had caused great damage to his attackers and escaped them completely. It could hardly be doubted that some people reasonably supposed this whale was none other than Moby Dick. Yet sperm whale hunting had lately seen various and not uncommon cases of great ferocity, cunning, and malice in the whales attacked. So hunters who unknowingly happened to fight Moby Dick were perhaps mostly content to blame the peculiar terror he inspired on the dangers of sperm whale hunting in general, rather than on the individual whale. That was mostly how people had, until then, regarded the disastrous encounter between Ahab and the whale.

And as for those who, previously hearing of the White Whale, by chance caught sight of him; in the beginning of the thing they had every one of them, almost, as boldly and fearlessly lowered for him, as for any other whale of that species. But at length, such calamities did ensue in these assaults—not restricted to sprained wrists and ankles, broken limbs, or devouring amputations—but fatal to the last degree of fatality; those repeated disastrous repulses, all accumulating and piling their terrors upon Moby Dick; those things had gone far to shake the fortitude of many brave hunters, to whom the story of the White Whale had eventually come.

As for those who had heard of the White Whale and then happened to see him, almost all of them initially lowered their boats in pursuit, as boldly and fearlessly as they would for any other whale of his species. But eventually, these attacks brought calamities far worse than sprained wrists and ankles, broken limbs, or limbs bitten off. They brought death itself. These repeated, disastrous defeats piled more and more terror onto the name of Moby Dick. They had done much to shake the courage of many brave hunters who eventually heard the White Whale’s story.

Nor did wild rumors of all sorts fail to exaggerate, and still the more horrify the true histories of these deadly encounters. For not only do fabulous rumors naturally grow out of the very body of all surprising terrible events,—as the smitten tree gives birth to its fungi; but, in maritime life, far more than in that of terra firma, wild rumors abound, wherever there is any adequate reality for them to cling to. And as the sea surpasses the land in this matter, so the whale fishery surpasses every other sort of maritime life, in the wonderfulness and fearfulness of the rumors which sometimes circulate there. For not only are whalemen as a body unexempt from that ignorance and superstitiousness hereditary to all sailors; but of all sailors, they are by all odds the most directly brought into contact with whatever is appallingly astonishing in the sea; face to face they not only eye its greatest marvels, but, hand to jaw, give battle to them. Alone, in such remotest waters, that though you sailed a thousand miles, and passed a thousand shores, you would not come to any chiseled hearth-stone, or aught hospitable beneath that part of the sun; in such latitudes and longitudes, pursuing too such a calling as he does, the whaleman is wrapped by influences all tending to make his fancy pregnant with many a mighty birth.

Wild rumors of every kind also exaggerated the true stories of these deadly encounters, making them even more horrifying. Fantastic rumors naturally grow out of all shocking, terrible events, just as fungi grow on a stricken tree. But wild rumors are far more common at sea than on land, wherever there is enough truth for them to cling to. And just as the sea surpasses the land in this respect, whaling surpasses every other kind of seafaring. The rumors that sometimes circulate among whalers are more wondrous and terrifying than any others at sea. For whalers, as a group, are not free from the ignorance and superstition inherited by all sailors. But of all sailors, they also come into the most direct contact with the sea’s most appalling wonders. They not only look its greatest marvels in the face, but fight them hand to jaw. A whaler works alone in the most remote waters. Even if he sailed a thousand miles and passed a thousand shores, he would find no carved hearthstone or anything hospitable under that part of the sun. In such places, and following such a calling, he is surrounded by influences that fill his imagination with powerful visions.

No wonder, then, that ever gathering volume from the mere transit over the widest watery spaces, the outblown rumors of the White Whale did in the end incorporate with themselves all manner of morbid hints, and half-formed fœtal suggestions of supernatural agencies, which eventually invested Moby Dick with new terrors unborrowed from anything that visibly appears. So that in many cases such a panic did he finally strike, that few who by those rumors, at least, had heard of the White Whale, few of those hunters were willing to encounter the perils of his jaw.

It is no wonder, then, that rumors of the White Whale grew as they traveled across vast stretches of ocean. In time, the rumors gathered all kinds of morbid hints and half-formed suggestions of supernatural forces. These gave Moby Dick new terrors beyond anything that could be seen. The whale eventually struck such fear into many hunters that few who had even heard those rumors were willing to face his jaws.

But there were still other and more vital practical influences at work. Not even at the present day has the original prestige of the Sperm Whale, as fearfully distinguished from all other species of the leviathan, died out of the minds of the whalemen as a body. There are those this day among them, who, though intelligent and courageous enough in offering battle to the Greenland or Right whale, would perhaps—either from professional inexperience, or incompetency, or timidity, decline a contest with the Sperm Whale; at any rate, there are plenty of whalemen, especially among those whaling nations not sailing under the American flag, who have never hostilely encountered the Sperm Whale, but whose sole knowledge of the leviathan is restricted to the ignoble monster primitively pursued in the North; seated on their hatches, these men will hearken with a childish fireside interest and awe, to the wild, strange tales of Southern whaling. Nor is the pre-eminent tremendousness of the great Sperm Whale anywhere more feelingly comprehended, than on board of those prows which stem him.

But other, more important practical influences were still at work. Even today, whalemen as a group have not forgotten the Sperm Whale's original fearsome reputation, which sets it apart from all other whale species. Some whalemen today are skilled and brave enough to fight the Greenland or Right whale. Yet perhaps through lack of experience, lack of skill, or fear, they would refuse to fight a Sperm Whale. In any case, plenty of whalemen have never attacked a Sperm Whale, especially among those from nations whose ships do not sail under the American flag. Their only knowledge of whales comes from the lesser creature first hunted in the North. Sitting on their hatch covers, these men listen to wild, strange tales of Southern whaling with the interest and awe of children by a fireside. Nowhere is the great Sperm Whale's surpassing power more deeply understood than aboard the ships that face it.

And as if the now tested reality of his might had in former legendary times thrown its shadow before it; we find some book naturalists—Olassen and Povelson—declaring the Sperm Whale not only to be a consternation to every other creature in the sea, but also to be so incredibly ferocious as continually to be athirst for human blood. Nor even down to so late a time as Cuvier’s, were these or almost similar impressions effaced. For in his Natural History, the Baron himself affirms that at sight of the Sperm Whale, all fish (sharks included) are “struck with the most lively terrors,” and “often in the precipitancy of their flight dash themselves against the rocks with such violence as to cause instantaneous death.” And however the general experiences in the fishery may amend such reports as these; yet in their full terribleness, even to the bloodthirsty item of Povelson, the superstitious belief in them is, in some vicissitudes of their vocation, revived in the minds of the hunters.

The Sperm Whale’s power has now been tested and proven. And as if that power had cast its shadow ahead into earlier, legendary times, some book naturalists, Olassen and Povelson, declared that the Sperm Whale terrified every other creature in the sea. They also said it was so incredibly fierce that it constantly thirsted for human blood. Such beliefs, or nearly similar ones, had not even faded by Cuvier’s time. In his Natural History, the Baron himself says that at the sight of a Sperm Whale, all fish, including sharks, are “struck with the most lively terrors.” He says they “often in the precipitancy of their flight dash themselves against the rocks with such violence as to cause instantaneous death.” Yet however much whalers’ general experience may correct such reports, the hunters sometimes face hardships in their work that revive their superstitious belief in the whole terrible story, even Povelson’s claim about the whale’s thirst for human blood.

So that overawed by the rumors and portents concerning him, not a few of the fishermen recalled, in reference to Moby Dick, the earlier days of the Sperm Whale fishery, when it was oftentimes hard to induce long practised Right whalemen to embark in the perils of this new and daring warfare; such men protesting that although other leviathans might be hopefully pursued, yet to chase and point lance at such an apparition as the Sperm Whale was not for mortal man. That to attempt it, would be inevitably to be torn into a quick eternity. On this head, there are some remarkable documents that may be consulted.

Overawed by the rumors and omens surrounding Moby Dick, many fishermen recalled the early days of Sperm Whale hunting. Back then, it was often hard to persuade experienced Right whalemen to risk joining this new and daring hunt. They protested that, although other whales might be pursued with hope of success, the Sperm Whale was an apparition no mortal man should chase and attack with a lance. To try would mean being torn apart and sent swiftly into eternity. Some remarkable documents on this subject can be consulted.

Nevertheless, some there were, who even in the face of these things were ready to give chase to Moby Dick; and a still greater number who, chancing only to hear of him distantly and vaguely, without the specific details of any certain calamity, and without superstitious accompaniments, were sufficiently hardy not to flee from the battle if offered.

Nevertheless, some were ready to chase Moby Dick even in the face of these things. An even greater number had heard of him only vaguely and from afar. They had heard no specific details of any particular disaster and no superstitious tales. These people were bold enough not to flee if offered a fight.

One of the wild suggestions referred to, as at last coming to be linked with the White Whale in the minds of the superstitiously inclined, was the unearthly conceit that Moby Dick was ubiquitous; that he had actually been encountered in opposite latitudes at one and the same instant of time.

One of the wild ideas that superstitious people eventually came to associate with the White Whale was a supernatural one. They believed Moby Dick was everywhere at once, and had actually been seen in opposite latitudes at the same instant.

Nor, credulous as such minds must have been, was this conceit altogether without some faint show of superstitious probability. For as the secrets of the currents in the seas have never yet been divulged, even to the most erudite research; so the hidden ways of the Sperm Whale when beneath the surface remain, in great part, unaccountable to his pursuers; and from time to time have originated the most curious and contradictory speculations regarding them, especially concerning the mystic modes whereby, after sounding to a great depth, he transports himself with such vast swiftness to the most widely distant points.

Though such minds must have been gullible, the idea was not entirely without a faint appearance of supernatural plausibility. For even the most scholarly research has never revealed the secrets of ocean currents. Similarly, much about the hidden paths of the Sperm Whale beneath the surface remains unexplained to those who pursue him. These hidden paths have given rise from time to time to the strangest and most contradictory theories. The theories especially concern the mysterious ways he travels so swiftly to distant places after diving to great depths.

It is a thing well known to both American and English whale-ships, and as well a thing placed upon authoritative record years ago by Scoresby, that some whales have been captured far north in the Pacific, in whose bodies have been found the barbs of harpoons darted in the Greenland seas. Nor is it to be gainsaid, that in some of these instances it has been declared that the interval of time between the two assaults could not have exceeded very many days. Hence, by inference, it has been believed by some whalemen, that the Nor’ West Passage, so long a problem to man, was never a problem to the whale. So that here, in the real living experience of living men, the prodigies related in old times of the inland Strello mountain in Portugal (near whose top there was said to be a lake in which the wrecks of ships floated up to the surface); and that still more wonderful story of the Arethusa fountain near Syracuse (whose waters were believed to have come from the Holy Land by an underground passage); these fabulous narrations are almost fully equalled by the realities of the whalemen.

American and English whaling ships know well that some whales have been caught far north in the Pacific with Greenland Sea harpoon barbs in their bodies. Scoresby also recorded this fact years ago. And in some cases, it has been said that only a few days could have passed between the two attacks. Some whalemen have therefore concluded that the Nor’ West Passage, so long a problem for humans, was never a problem for whales. So the real experiences of living whalemen almost equal the wonders of old stories. One story concerned Portugal’s inland Strello mountain. Near its summit, there was said to be a lake where shipwrecks floated to the surface. An even more wonderful story concerned the Arethusa fountain near Syracuse. Its waters were believed to have come from the Holy Land through an underground passage. The realities witnessed by whalemen almost match these fabulous tales.

Forced into familiarity, then, with such prodigies as these; and knowing that after repeated, intrepid assaults, the White Whale had escaped alive; it cannot be much matter of surprise that some whalemen should go still further in their superstitions; declaring Moby Dick not only ubiquitous, but immortal (for immortality is but ubiquity in time); that though groves of spears should be planted in his flanks, he would still swim away unharmed; or if indeed he should ever be made to spout thick blood, such a sight would be but a ghastly deception; for again in unensanguined billows hundreds of leagues away, his unsullied jet would once more be seen.

Whalemen had been forced to become familiar with such wonders. They also knew that the White Whale had survived repeated, fearless attacks. So it is hardly surprising that some whalemen carried their superstitions even further. They claimed that Moby Dick was not only everywhere at once, but immortal (for immortality is simply being everywhere in time). They said that even if a forest of spears were planted in his sides, he would swim away unharmed. And if he ever did spout thick blood, they said, the sight would be a ghastly deception. For hundreds of leagues away, amid waves unstained by blood, his spotless spout would be seen again.

But even stripped of these supernatural surmisings, there was enough in the earthly make and incontestable character of the monster to strike the imagination with unwonted power. For, it was not so much his uncommon bulk that so much distinguished him from other sperm whales, but, as was elsewhere thrown out—a peculiar snow-white wrinkled forehead, and a high, pyramidical white hump. These were his prominent features; the tokens whereby, even in the limitless, uncharted seas, he revealed his identity, at a long distance, to those who knew him.

But even without these supernatural speculations, the monster’s physical form and undeniable nature were enough to stir the imagination with unusual power. His unusual size was not what distinguished him most from other sperm whales. Rather, as mentioned elsewhere, he had a distinctive snow-white, wrinkled forehead and a high, pyramid-shaped white hump. These were his most noticeable features. By these signs, those who knew him could recognize him from far away, even on the vast, uncharted seas.

The rest of his body was so streaked, and spotted, and marbled with the same shrouded hue, that, in the end, he had gained his distinctive appellation of the White Whale; a name, indeed, literally justified by his vivid aspect, when seen gliding at high noon through a dark blue sea, leaving a milky-way wake of creamy foam, all spangled with golden gleamings.

The rest of his body was streaked, spotted, and marbled with the same pale color. So he came to be known as the White Whale. The name was literally fitting when he was seen gliding through a dark blue sea at noon. He left a wake like the Milky Way, made of creamy foam sparkling all over with golden light.

Nor was it his unwonted magnitude, nor his remarkable hue, nor yet his deformed lower jaw, that so much invested the whale with natural terror, as that unexampled, intelligent malignity which, according to specific accounts, he had over and over again evinced in his assaults. More than all, his treacherous retreats struck more of dismay than perhaps aught else. For, when swimming before his exulting pursuers, with every apparent symptom of alarm, he had several times been known to turn round suddenly, and, bearing down upon them, either stave their boats to splinters, or drive them back in consternation to their ship.

The whale’s unusual size, remarkable color, and deformed lower jaw were not what made him so terrifying. Rather, it was the unmatched, intelligent malice he had shown in his attacks, again and again, according to specific accounts. Above all, his deceptive retreats caused more dismay than perhaps anything else. As he swam ahead of his triumphant pursuers, he appeared to be fleeing in fear. But several times he had suddenly turned and charged at them, smashing their boats to splinters or driving them back to their ship in panic.

Already several fatalities had attended his chase. But though similar disasters, however little bruited ashore, were by no means unusual in the fishery; yet, in most instances, such seemed the White Whale’s infernal aforethought of ferocity, that every dismembering or death that he caused, was not wholly regarded as having been inflicted by an unintelligent agent.

Several people had already died pursuing him. Similar disasters were not unusual in whaling, though little was said about them ashore. But in most cases, the White Whale’s ferocity seemed so fiendishly deliberate that people did not regard his mutilations or killings as entirely the work of an unintelligent creature.

Judge, then, to what pitches of inflamed, distracted fury the minds of his more desperate hunters were impelled, when amid the chips of chewed boats, and the sinking limbs of torn comrades, they swam out of the white curds of the whale’s direful wrath into the serene, exasperating sunlight, that smiled on, as if at a birth or a bridal.

Imagine, then, the blazing, maddened fury that seized the whale’s more desperate hunters. They swam among the splinters of shattered boats and the sinking limbs of their torn comrades. They emerged from the white foam of the whale’s dreadful wrath into calm, infuriating sunlight. The sunlight smiled on as if at a birth or a wedding.

His three boats stove around him, and oars and men both whirling in the eddies; one captain, seizing the line-knife from his broken prow, had dashed at the whale, as an Arkansas duellist at his foe, blindly seeking with a six inch blade to reach the fathom-deep life of the whale. That captain was Ahab. And then it was, that suddenly sweeping his sickle-shaped lower jaw beneath him, Moby Dick had reaped away Ahab’s leg, as a mower a blade of grass in the field. No turbaned Turk, no hired Venetian or Malay, could have smote him with more seeming malice. Small reason was there to doubt, then, that ever since that almost fatal encounter, Ahab had cherished a wild vindictiveness against the whale, all the more fell for that in his frantic morbidness he at last came to identify with him, not only all his bodily woes, but all his intellectual and spiritual exasperations. The White Whale swam before him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left living on with half a heart and half a lung. That intangible malignity which has been from the beginning; to whose dominion even the modern Christians ascribe one-half of the worlds; which the ancient Ophites of the east reverenced in their statue devil;—Ahab did not fall down and worship it like them; but deliriously transferring its idea to the abhorred white whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated, against it. All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.

His three boats were smashed around him, and oars and men alike were whirling in the eddies. One captain grabbed the line-knife from his broken prow and rushed at the whale like an Arkansas duelist charging his enemy. Blindly, he tried to reach the whale’s life, buried a fathom deep, with a six-inch blade. That captain was Ahab. Then Moby Dick suddenly swept his sickle-shaped lower jaw beneath himself and cut off Ahab’s leg, as a mower cuts a blade of grass. No turbaned Turk or hired Venetian or Malay could have struck him with more apparent malice. There was little reason to doubt that Ahab had cherished a wild desire for revenge against the whale ever since that nearly fatal encounter. His desire grew even more savage because, in his frantic, unhealthy state of mind, he eventually blamed the whale for everything. He blamed him not only for all his physical suffering, but also for everything that tormented his mind and spirit. To his obsessed mind, the White Whale embodied all the malicious forces that some deep thinkers feel eating away at them. Those forces leave them living on with half a heart and half a lung. This unseen evil has existed from the beginning. Even modern Christians assign half the worlds to its rule. The ancient Ophites of the east revered the evil in their statue of a devil. Ahab did not bow down and worship the evil as they did. Instead, in his delirium, he projected the idea of that evil onto the hated white whale. Mutilated as he was, he set himself against it. To the mad Ahab, Moby Dick visibly embodied all that most maddens and torments, all that stirs up the dregs of things, and all truth containing malice. He embodied all that breaks the sinews and hardens the brain, all the subtle evils of life and thought, and all evil. In Moby Dick, all of this could be attacked. Ahab heaped onto the whale’s white hump all the rage and hate felt by his entire race since Adam. Then, as if his chest were a mortar, he fired his hot heart like an exploding shell at the whale.

It is not probable that this monomania in him took its instant rise at the precise time of his bodily dismemberment. Then, in darting at the monster, knife in hand, he had but given loose to a sudden, passionate, corporal animosity; and when he received the stroke that tore him, he probably but felt the agonizing bodily laceration, but nothing more. Yet, when by this collision forced to turn towards home, and for long months of days and weeks, Ahab and anguish lay stretched together in one hammock, rounding in mid winter that dreary, howling Patagonian Cape; then it was, that his torn body and gashed soul bled into one another; and so interfusing, made him mad. That it was only then, on the homeward voyage, after the encounter, that the final monomania seized him, seems all but certain from the fact that, at intervals during the passage, he was a raving lunatic; and, though unlimbed of a leg, yet such vital strength yet lurked in his Egyptian chest, and was moreover intensified by his delirium, that his mates were forced to lace him fast, even there, as he sailed, raving in his hammock. In a strait-jacket, he swung to the mad rockings of the gales. And, when running into more sufferable latitudes, the ship, with mild stun’sails spread, floated across the tranquil tropics, and, to all appearances, the old man’s delirium seemed left behind him with the Cape Horn swells, and he came forth from his dark den into the blessed light and air; even then, when he bore that firm, collected front, however pale, and issued his calm orders once again; and his mates thanked God the direful madness was now gone; even then, Ahab, in his hidden self, raved on. Human madness is oftentimes a cunning and most feline thing. When you think it fled, it may have but become transfigured into some still subtler form. Ahab’s full lunacy subsided not, but deepeningly contracted; like the unabated Hudson, when that noble Northman flows narrowly, but unfathomably through the Highland gorge. But, as in his narrow-flowing monomania, not one jot of Ahab’s broad madness had been left behind; so in that broad madness, not one jot of his great natural intellect had perished. That before living agent, now became the living instrument. If such a furious trope may stand, his special lunacy stormed his general sanity, and carried it, and turned all its concentred cannon upon its own mad mark; so that far from having lost his strength, Ahab, to that one end, did now possess a thousand fold more potency than ever he had sanely brought to bear upon any one reasonable object.

It is unlikely that Ahab’s obsession began at the exact moment he lost his leg. When he lunged at the monster with a knife, he was simply giving way to sudden, fierce physical rage. When the blow tore him, he probably felt only the agonizing wound and nothing more. But the encounter forced him to turn homeward. For long months, Ahab and anguish lay together in one hammock as the ship rounded that bleak, howling Patagonian Cape in midwinter. Then his torn body and wounded soul bled into each other. Their mingled pain drove him mad. It seems almost certain that his final obsession seized him only afterward, on the voyage home. During the passage, he was at times a raving lunatic. Though he had lost a leg, immense strength still lay in his Egyptian chest. His delirium made him stronger still, so his mates had to tie him down in his hammock. As the ship sailed, he raved there, strapped into a straitjacket and swinging with the wild rocking of the gales. The ship eventually reached gentler latitudes. With its light studding sails spread, it floated across the calm tropics. By all appearances, the old man’s delirium had been left behind with the swells off Cape Horn. He came out of his dark den into the blessed light and air. Though pale, he appeared firm and composed, and once again gave calm orders. His mates thanked God that the terrible madness was gone. Yet even then, deep inside, Ahab raved on. Human madness is often a cunning, catlike thing. When you think it has fled, it may only have changed into a subtler form. Ahab’s full madness did not subside. Instead, it narrowed as it deepened, like the undiminished Hudson, that noble Northman, flowing narrowly but unfathomably through the Highland gorge. Not a bit of Ahab’s broad madness had been left behind as it narrowed into obsession. Nor had a bit of his great natural intellect perished in that broad madness. His intellect, once a living force in its own right, now became a living instrument. If such a fierce comparison is allowed, his particular madness stormed his general sanity and captured it. Then his madness turned all its captured cannon on its own mad target. Far from losing strength, Ahab now had a thousand times more power for that single purpose than he had ever directed toward any reasonable goal while sane.

This is much; yet Ahab’s larger, darker, deeper part remains unhinted. But vain to popularize profundities, and all truth is profound. Winding far down from within the very heart of this spiked Hotel de Cluny where we here stand—however grand and wonderful, now quit it;—and take your way, ye nobler, sadder souls, to those vast Roman halls of Thermes; where far beneath the fantastic towers of man’s upper earth, his root of grandeur, his whole awful essence sits in bearded state; an antique buried beneath antiquities, and throned on torsoes! So with a broken throne, the great gods mock that captive king; so like a Caryatid, he patient sits, upholding on his frozen brow the piled entablatures of ages. Wind ye down there, ye prouder, sadder souls! question that proud, sad king! A family likeness! aye, he did beget ye, ye young exiled royalties; and from your grim sire only will the old State-secret come.

This is much, yet Ahab’s larger, darker, deeper nature remains unhinted at. But it is useless to make profound things accessible to everyone, and all truth is profound. We stand here in the heart of the spiked Hotel de Cluny. Grand and wonderful as the building is, leave it now, you nobler, sadder souls. Wind your way far down to the vast Roman halls of Thermes. There, far beneath the fantastic towers men have built aboveground, sits the root of their grandeur, their whole fearful essence. He sits there in bearded majesty, an ancient figure buried beneath antiquities and enthroned on torsos! With a broken throne, the great gods mock that captive king. Like a Caryatid, he sits patiently, supporting the piled entablatures of ages on his frozen brow. Wind your way down there, you prouder, sadder souls! Question that proud, sad king! There is a family likeness! Yes, he fathered you, you young exiled royals. Only your grim father can reveal the old State-secret.

Now, in his heart, Ahab had some glimpse of this, namely: all my means are sane, my motive and my object mad. Yet without power to kill, or change, or shun the fact; he likewise knew that to mankind he did long dissemble; in some sort, did still. But that thing of his dissembling was only subject to his perceptibility, not to his will determinate. Nevertheless, so well did he succeed in that dissembling, that when with ivory leg he stepped ashore at last, no Nantucketer thought him otherwise than but naturally grieved, and that to the quick, with the terrible casualty which had overtaken him.

Deep down, Ahab had some glimpse of the truth: all his means were sane, but his motive and goal were mad. Yet he had no power to destroy, change, or escape that fact. He also knew that he had long concealed it from others, and still did, in some way. But he could only observe his deception. He could not control it. Nevertheless, he concealed the truth so well that, when he finally stepped ashore on his ivory leg, no Nantucketer thought he was anything but naturally and deeply grieved by the terrible accident that had befallen him.

The report of his undeniable delirium at sea was likewise popularly ascribed to a kindred cause. And so too, all the added moodiness which always afterwards, to the very day of sailing in the Pequod on the present voyage, sat brooding on his brow. Nor is it so very unlikely, that far from distrusting his fitness for another whaling voyage, on account of such dark symptoms, the calculating people of that prudent isle were inclined to harbor the conceit, that for those very reasons he was all the better qualified and set on edge, for a pursuit so full of rage and wildness as the bloody hunt of whales. Gnawed within and scorched without, with the infixed, unrelenting fangs of some incurable idea; such an one, could he be found, would seem the very man to dart his iron and lift his lance against the most appalling of all brutes. Or, if for any reason thought to be corporeally incapacitated for that, yet such an one would seem superlatively competent to cheer and howl on his underlings to the attack. But be all this as it may, certain it is, that with the mad secret of his unabated rage bolted up and keyed in him, Ahab had purposely sailed upon the present voyage with the one only and all-engrossing object of hunting the White Whale. Had any one of his old acquaintances on shore but half dreamed of what was lurking in him then, how soon would their aghast and righteous souls have wrenched the ship from such a fiendish man! They were bent on profitable cruises, the profit to be counted down in dollars from the mint. He was intent on an audacious, immitigable, and supernatural revenge.

People also commonly blamed his undeniable delirium at sea on a related cause. They said the same of the added gloom that shadowed his face afterward, right up to the day the Pequod sailed on its present voyage. And it is quite possible that the calculating people of that prudent island did not doubt his fitness for another whaling voyage because of these dark signs. Instead, they may have thought that, for those very reasons, he was better suited and more eager for the bloody whale hunt, a pursuit so full of rage and wildness. A man gnawed within and scorched without by the fixed, relentless fangs of some incurable obsession would seem the ideal man for the task, if such a man could be found. He would be ready to throw his harpoon and raise his lance against the most terrifying of all beasts. Or, if he were thought physically unable to do that for any reason, he would seem supremely capable of cheering and howling his men on to the attack. But whatever the truth of all this, one thing is certain. Ahab had deliberately sailed on this voyage with the mad secret of his undiminished rage locked inside him. His one consuming purpose was to hunt the White Whale. If any of his old acquaintances on shore had even half guessed what lurked within him then, their horrified and righteous souls would have quickly wrested the ship from such a fiendish man! They were set on profitable voyages, with profits counted out in dollars from the mint. He was intent on a bold, relentless, supernatural revenge.

Here, then, was this grey-headed, ungodly old man, chasing with curses a Job’s whale round the world, at the head of a crew, too, chiefly made up of mongrel renegades, and castaways, and cannibals—morally enfeebled also, by the incompetence of mere unaided virtue or right-mindedness in Starbuck, the invulnerable jollity of indifference and recklessness in Stubb, and the pervading mediocrity in Flask. Such a crew, so officered, seemed specially picked and packed by some infernal fatality to help him to his monomaniac revenge. How it was that they so aboundingly responded to the old man’s ire—by what evil magic their souls were possessed, that at times his hate seemed almost theirs; the White Whale as much their insufferable foe as his; how all this came to be—what the White Whale was to them, or how to their unconscious understandings, also, in some dim, unsuspected way, he might have seemed the gliding great demon of the seas of life,—all this to explain, would be to dive deeper than Ishmael can go. The subterranean miner that works in us all, how can one tell whither leads his shaft by the ever shifting, muffled sound of his pick? Who does not feel the irresistible arm drag? What skiff in tow of a seventy-four can stand still? For one, I gave myself up to the abandonment of the time and the place; but while yet all a-rush to encounter the whale, could see naught in that brute but the deadliest ill.

Here was this gray-haired, godless old man, cursing as he chased a Job’s whale around the world. He led a crew made up mostly of mixed-race renegades, castaways, and cannibals. The crew was morally weakened, too, by its officers. Starbuck’s virtue and good judgment alone were not enough. Stubb’s cheerful indifference and recklessness could not be shaken. Flask’s mediocrity affected everything. With such officers, the crew seemed specially chosen and assembled by some hellish fate to help the old man exact his obsessive revenge. How did the crew respond so completely to the old man’s anger? By what evil magic were their souls possessed, so that his hatred sometimes seemed almost their own? The White Whale seemed as intolerable an enemy to them as he was to the old man. How did all this come about? What was the White Whale to them? How might he also have seemed to their unconscious minds, in some dim, unsuspected way, the great demon gliding through the seas of life? To explain all this would be to dive deeper than Ishmael can go. A miner works underground in us all. How can anyone tell where his shaft leads from the ever-changing, muffled sound of his pick? Who does not feel that irresistible force dragging them along? What small boat being towed by a seventy-four-gun warship can stand still? For my part, I gave myself up to the abandon of that time and place. But even as I rushed with the others to meet the whale, I could see nothing in that brute but the deadliest evil.