The Chart

Had you followed Captain Ahab down into his cabin after the squall that took place on the night succeeding that wild ratification of his purpose with his crew, you would have seen him go to a locker in the transom, and bringing out a large wrinkled roll of yellowish sea charts, spread them before him on his screwed-down table. Then seating himself before it, you would have seen him intently study the various lines and shadings which there met his eye; and with slow but steady pencil trace additional courses over spaces that before were blank. At intervals, he would refer to piles of old log-books beside him, wherein were set down the seasons and places in which, on various former voyages of various ships, sperm whales had been captured or seen.

If you had followed Captain Ahab into his cabin after the squall, you would have seen him open a locker in the transom. The squall had struck the night after his crew had wildly pledged to support his purpose. From the locker, he took a large, wrinkled roll of yellowish sea charts and spread them on his bolted-down table. Then he sat down and studied the lines and shadings intently. With slow but steady pencil strokes, he traced new courses across spaces that had been blank. From time to time, he consulted piles of old logbooks beside him. These recorded the seasons and places where sperm whales had been captured or seen on previous voyages by various ships.

While thus employed, the heavy pewter lamp suspended in chains over his head, continually rocked with the motion of the ship, and for ever threw shifting gleams and shadows of lines upon his wrinkled brow, till it almost seemed that while he himself was marking out lines and courses on the wrinkled charts, some invisible pencil was also tracing lines and courses upon the deeply marked chart of his forehead.

While he worked, the heavy pewter lamp hanging in chains above his head rocked constantly with the ship’s motion. It cast shifting gleams and shadows in lines across his wrinkled brow. As he marked lines and courses on the wrinkled charts, it almost seemed that an invisible pencil was doing the same on the deeply marked chart of his forehead.

But it was not this night in particular that, in the solitude of his cabin, Ahab thus pondered over his charts. Almost every night they were brought out; almost every night some pencil marks were effaced, and others were substituted. For with the charts of all four oceans before him, Ahab was threading a maze of currents and eddies, with a view to the more certain accomplishment of that monomaniac thought of his soul.

But this was not the only night Ahab studied his charts alone in his cabin. He brought them out almost every night. Almost every night, he erased some pencil marks and replaced them with others. With charts of all four oceans before him, Ahab traced a maze of currents and eddies. He did this to make it more certain that he would achieve the single, obsessive aim that possessed his soul.

Now, to any one not fully acquainted with the ways of the leviathans, it might seem an absurdly hopeless task thus to seek out one solitary creature in the unhooped oceans of this planet. But not so did it seem to Ahab, who knew the sets of all tides and currents; and thereby calculating the driftings of the sperm whale’s food; and, also, calling to mind the regular, ascertained seasons for hunting him in particular latitudes; could arrive at reasonable surmises, almost approaching to certainties, concerning the timeliest day to be upon this or that ground in search of his prey.

To anyone unfamiliar with the ways of whales, searching for one creature in the planet’s vast, unbounded oceans might seem absurdly hopeless. But Ahab did not see it that way. He knew the direction of all tides and currents and could use them to calculate how the sperm whale’s food drifted. He also knew the established seasons for hunting sperm whales in particular latitudes. From all this, he could make reasonable guesses, approaching near certainty, about the best day to search for his prey in a given area.

So assured, indeed, is the fact concerning the periodicalness of the sperm whale’s resorting to given waters, that many hunters believe that, could he be closely observed and studied throughout the world; were the logs for one voyage of the entire whale fleet carefully collated, then the migrations of the sperm whale would be found to correspond in invariability to those of the herring-shoals or the flights of swallows. On this hint, attempts have been made to construct elaborate migratory charts of the sperm whale.*

Sperm whales are known to return to particular waters so regularly that many hunters believe their migrations follow a fixed pattern. They believe this could be shown if sperm whales were closely observed and studied throughout the world, and if the logs from one voyage of the entire whaling fleet were carefully compared. The migrations would then be found to be as regular as those of herring shoals or the flights of swallows. Based on this idea, people have tried to create elaborate charts of sperm whale migrations.*

Besides, when making a passage from one feeding-ground to another, the sperm whales, guided by some infallible instinct—say, rather, secret intelligence from the Deity—mostly swim in veins, as they are called; continuing their way along a given ocean-line with such undeviating exactitude, that no ship ever sailed her course, by any chart, with one tithe of such marvellous precision. Though, in these cases, the direction taken by any one whale be straight as a surveyor’s parallel, and though the line of advance be strictly confined to its own unavoidable, straight wake, yet the arbitrary vein in which at these times he is said to swim, generally embraces some few miles in width (more or less, as the vein is presumed to expand or contract); but never exceeds the visual sweep from the whale-ship’s mast-heads, when circumspectly gliding along this magic zone. The sum is, that at particular seasons within that breadth and along that path, migrating whales may with great confidence be looked for.

Besides, when traveling from one feeding ground to another, sperm whales mostly swim in what are called veins. They are guided by some infallible instinct, or rather, secret intelligence from the Deity. They follow a particular path through the ocean with unwavering accuracy. No ship ever followed a charted course with a tenth of such marvelous precision. In these cases, each whale travels as straight as a surveyor’s parallel, leaving only a straight wake behind it. Even so, the vein in which the whale is said to swim is an arbitrarily defined strip, generally a few miles wide. Its width varies, since the vein is presumed to expand or contract. But the vein never extends beyond what can be seen from a whale-ship’s mastheads as the ship carefully glides along this magic zone. In short, at particular seasons, migrating whales may be expected with great confidence anywhere along that path and within that width.

And hence not only at substantiated times, upon well known separate feeding-grounds, could Ahab hope to encounter his prey; but in crossing the widest expanses of water between those grounds he could, by his art, so place and time himself on his way, as even then not to be wholly without prospect of a meeting.

So Ahab could hope to encounter his prey at known times on particular, well-known feeding grounds. But he could also use his skill to plan his route and timing across the vast waters between those grounds. Even there, he would still have some prospect of a meeting.

There was a circumstance which at first sight seemed to entangle his delirious but still methodical scheme. But not so in the reality, perhaps. Though the gregarious sperm whales have their regular seasons for particular grounds, yet in general you cannot conclude that the herds which haunted such and such a latitude or longitude this year, say, will turn out to be identically the same with those that were found there the preceding season; though there are peculiar and unquestionable instances where the contrary of this has proved true. In general, the same remark, only within a less wide limit, applies to the solitaries and hermits among the matured, aged sperm whales. So that though Moby Dick had in a former year been seen, for example, on what is called the Seychelle ground in the Indian ocean, or Volcano Bay on the Japanese Coast; yet it did not follow, that were the Pequod to visit either of those spots at any subsequent corresponding season, she would infallibly encounter him there. So, too, with some other feeding grounds, where he had at times revealed himself. But all these seemed only his casual stopping-places and ocean-inns, so to speak, not his places of prolonged abode. And where Ahab’s chances of accomplishing his object have hitherto been spoken of, allusion has only been made to whatever way-side, antecedent, extra prospects were his, ere a particular set time or place were attained, when all possibilities would become probabilities, and, as Ahab fondly thought, every possibility the next thing to a certainty. That particular set time and place were conjoined in the one technical phrase—the Season-on-the-Line. For there and then, for several consecutive years, Moby Dick had been periodically descried, lingering in those waters for awhile, as the sun, in its annual round, loiters for a predicted interval in any one sign of the Zodiac. There it was, too, that most of the deadly encounters with the white whale had taken place; there the waves were storied with his deeds; there also was that tragic spot where the monomaniac old man had found the awful motive to his vengeance. But in the cautious comprehensiveness and unloitering vigilance with which Ahab threw his brooding soul into this unfaltering hunt, he would not permit himself to rest all his hopes upon the one crowning fact above mentioned, however flattering it might be to those hopes; nor in the sleeplessness of his vow could he so tranquillize his unquiet heart as to postpone all intervening quest.

One circumstance at first seemed to complicate Ahab’s delirious but still methodical plan. But perhaps it did not really complicate the plan. Sperm whales travel in herds and have regular seasons for visiting particular grounds. Yet, in general, you cannot conclude that a herd found in one region this year is the same herd found there the previous season. There are, though, special and undeniable cases in which the same herd has returned. In general, the same is true of mature, old sperm whales that live alone, though within a smaller range. For example, Moby Dick had been seen in an earlier year on the Seychelle ground in the Indian Ocean and at Volcano Bay on the Japanese Coast. But if the Pequod visited either place in a later year during the same season, an encounter with him was not certain. The same was true of some other feeding grounds where he had appeared at times. But all these seemed to be merely casual stopping places, ocean inns, so to speak, rather than places where he stayed for long. So far, any mention of Ahab’s chances of achieving his goal has concerned only the extra opportunities along the way. These were chances he had before reaching a particular time and place. Then all possibilities would become probabilities and, as Ahab hoped, every possibility would be almost a certainty. That time and place were united in one technical phrase: the Season-on-the-Line. For several years in a row, Moby Dick had been seen there at that time, lingering in those waters for a while. He appeared as regularly as the sun, in its yearly course, lingers for a known period in each sign of the Zodiac. Most of the deadly encounters with the white whale had also taken place there. The waves there carried the stories of his deeds. There, too, was the tragic spot where the obsessed old man had found the terrible motive for his revenge. But Ahab threw his brooding soul into this relentless hunt with such caution, thoroughness, and tireless vigilance that he would not put all his hopes on that one great fact, however promising it seemed. Nor could he, bound by his sleepless vow, quiet his restless heart enough to put off the search in the meantime.

Now, the Pequod had sailed from Nantucket at the very beginning of the Season-on-the-Line. No possible endeavor then could enable her commander to make the great passage southwards, double Cape Horn, and then running down sixty degrees of latitude arrive in the equatorial Pacific in time to cruise there. Therefore, he must wait for the next ensuing season. Yet the premature hour of the Pequod’s sailing had, perhaps, been correctly selected by Ahab, with a view to this very complexion of things. Because, an interval of three hundred and sixty-five days and nights was before him; an interval which, instead of impatiently enduring ashore, he would spend in a miscellaneous hunt; if by chance the White Whale, spending his vacation in seas far remote from his periodical feeding-grounds, should turn up his wrinkled brow off the Persian Gulf, or in the Bengal Bay, or China Seas, or in any other waters haunted by his race. So that Monsoons, Pampas, Nor’-Westers, Harmattans, Trades; any wind but the Levanter and Simoon, might blow Moby Dick into the devious zig-zag world-circle of the Pequod’s circumnavigating wake.

The Pequod had sailed from Nantucket at the very beginning of the Season-on-the-Line. No effort could have brought her commander to the equatorial Pacific in time to cruise there. He would have had to sail far south, round Cape Horn, and then sail through sixty degrees of latitude. So he had to wait for the next season. Yet perhaps Ahab had deliberately chosen to sail so early, with this very situation in mind. He had an interval of 365 days and nights before him. Rather than wait impatiently ashore, he would spend that time hunting wherever he could. Perhaps the White Whale, vacationing in seas far from his regular feeding grounds, would show his wrinkled brow. He might appear off the Persian Gulf, in the Bengal Bay or China Seas, or in any other waters visited by his kind. So Monsoons, Pampas, Nor’-Westers, Harmattans, Trades, any wind but the Levanter and Simoon, might blow Moby Dick into the Pequod’s winding, zigzag path around the world.

But granting all this; yet, regarded discreetly and coolly, seems it not but a mad idea, this; that in the broad boundless ocean, one solitary whale, even if encountered, should be thought capable of individual recognition from his hunter, even as a white-bearded Mufti in the thronged thoroughfares of Constantinople? Yes. For the peculiar snow-white brow of Moby Dick, and his snow-white hump, could not but be unmistakable. And have I not tallied the whale, Ahab would mutter to himself, as after poring over his charts till long after midnight he would throw himself back in reveries—tallied him, and shall he escape? His broad fins are bored, and scalloped out like a lost sheep’s ear! And here, his mad mind would run on in a breathless race; till a weariness and faintness of pondering came over him; and in the open air of the deck he would seek to recover his strength. Ah, God! what trances of torments does that man endure who is consumed with one unachieved revengeful desire. He sleeps with clenched hands; and wakes with his own bloody nails in his palms.

But even granting all this, consider the idea calmly and carefully. In the vast, boundless ocean, could a hunter recognize one particular whale, even if he encountered it? Could he recognize it as easily as a white-bearded Mufti in the crowded streets of Constantinople? It seems a mad idea. Yet he could. Moby Dick’s snow-white forehead and snow-white hump were unmistakable. And have I not marked the whale? Ahab would mutter to himself. He would say this after studying his charts until long after midnight, then leaning back, lost in thought. Have I not marked him? Will he escape me? His broad fins are pierced and notched like a lost sheep’s ear! Then his mad thoughts would race on, breathless, until all that thinking left him weary and faint. He would go out into the open air on deck to recover his strength. Ah, God! What trances of torment a man endures when consumed by a desire for revenge he has not yet achieved. He sleeps with clenched fists and wakes with his own nails drawing blood from his palms.

Often, when forced from his hammock by exhausting and intolerably vivid dreams of the night, which, resuming his own intense thoughts through the day, carried them on amid a clashing of phrensies, and whirled them round and round and round in his blazing brain, till the very throbbing of his life-spot became insufferable anguish; and when, as was sometimes the case, these spiritual throes in him heaved his being up from its base, and a chasm seemed opening in him, from which forked flames and lightnings shot up, and accursed fiends beckoned him to leap down among them; when this hell in himself yawned beneath him, a wild cry would be heard through the ship; and with glaring eyes Ahab would burst from his state room, as though escaping from a bed that was on fire. Yet these, perhaps, instead of being the unsuppressable symptoms of some latent weakness, or fright at his own resolve, were but the plainest tokens of its intensity. For, at such times, crazy Ahab, the scheming, unappeasedly steadfast hunter of the white whale; this Ahab that had gone to his hammock, was not the agent that so caused him to burst from it in horror again. The latter was the eternal, living principle or soul in him; and in sleep, being for the time dissociated from the characterizing mind, which at other times employed it for its outer vehicle or agent, it spontaneously sought escape from the scorching contiguity of the frantic thing, of which, for the time, it was no longer an integral. But as the mind does not exist unless leagued with the soul, therefore it must have been that, in Ahab’s case, yielding up all his thoughts and fancies to his one supreme purpose; that purpose, by its own sheer inveteracy of will, forced itself against gods and devils into a kind of self-assumed, independent being of its own. Nay, could grimly live and burn, while the common vitality to which it was conjoined, fled horror-stricken from the unbidden and unfathered birth. Therefore, the tormented spirit that glared out of bodily eyes, when what seemed Ahab rushed from his room, was for the time but a vacated thing, a formless somnambulistic being, a ray of living light, to be sure, but without an object to colour, and therefore a blankness in itself. God help thee, old man, thy thoughts have created a creature in thee; and he whose intense thinking thus makes him a Prometheus; a vulture feeds upon that heart for ever; that vulture the very creature he creates.

Often, Ahab was driven from his hammock by exhausting, unbearably vivid dreams. They took up his intense thoughts from the day and carried them on amid clashing frenzies. They whirled those thoughts around and around in his blazing brain until the very beating of his heart became unbearable agony. Sometimes these spiritual torments shook his being to its foundations. A chasm seemed to open within him, shooting out forked flames and lightning, while cursed fiends beckoned him to leap down among them. When this hell opened beneath him, a wild cry would ring through the ship. Ahab would burst from his cabin, his eyes blazing, as if escaping from a bed on fire. Yet these outbursts were perhaps not uncontrollable signs of some hidden weakness or fear of his own resolve. They may have been the clearest signs of how intense that resolve was. The Ahab who had gone to his hammock was mad, scheming, and steadfast in his restless hunt for the white whale. But at such times, that Ahab was not what made him burst from his hammock in horror. What drove him out was the eternal, living principle within him, his soul. In sleep, his soul was temporarily separated from his distinctive mind, which at other times used it to act in the world. No longer part of that frantic mind, the soul instinctively sought to escape its scorching closeness. But the mind cannot exist unless it is joined to the soul. So, in Ahab’s case, something else must have happened. He had given all his thoughts and imaginings to his one supreme purpose. Through sheer stubborn will, that purpose had forced itself, against gods and devils, into a kind of independent existence. It could even live and burn with grim intensity while the ordinary life joined to it fled in horror from this unbidden, fatherless birth. So when what seemed to be Ahab rushed from his room, a tormented spirit glared through his eyes. For the moment, that spirit was only an emptied thing, a shapeless sleepwalker. It was a ray of living light, certainly, but it had no object to give color to, and so was blank in itself. God help you, old man. Your thoughts have created a creature within you. When a man’s intense thinking makes him a Prometheus in this way, a vulture feeds on his heart forever. That vulture is the very creature he creates.