{"id":"01KJNXJQXG7EKZJD0JB1JDXNJV","cid":"bafkreiac2whrvt53hqxj5j4lx5rjwly5vdzyruhgsbf5rpbkgylyuttwiu","type":"text_chunk","properties":{"char_end":385449,"char_start":377466,"chunk_index":53,"chunk_total":178,"estimated_tokens":1996,"source_file_key":"moby-dick","text":"much predictions from without, as verifications of the foregoing things\r\nwithin. For with little external to constrain us, the innermost\r\nnecessities in our being, these still drive us on.\r\n\r\n“The measure! the measure!” cried Ahab.\r\n\r\nReceiving the brimming pewter, and turning to the harpooneers, he\r\nordered them to produce their weapons. Then ranging them before him\r\nnear the capstan, with their harpoons in their hands, while his three\r\nmates stood at his side with their lances, and the rest of the ship’s\r\ncompany formed a circle round the group; he stood for an instant\r\nsearchingly eyeing every man of his crew. But those wild eyes met his,\r\nas the bloodshot eyes of the prairie wolves meet the eye of their\r\nleader, ere he rushes on at their head in the trail of the bison; but,\r\nalas! only to fall into the hidden snare of the Indian.\r\n\r\n“Drink and pass!” he cried, handing the heavy charged flagon to the\r\nnearest seaman. “The crew alone now drink. Round with it, round! Short\r\ndraughts—long swallows, men; ’tis hot as Satan’s hoof. So, so; it goes\r\nround excellently. It spiralizes in ye; forks out at the\r\nserpent-snapping eye. Well done; almost drained. That way it went, this\r\nway it comes. Hand it me—here’s a hollow! Men, ye seem the years; so\r\nbrimming life is gulped and gone. Steward, refill!\r\n\r\n“Attend now, my braves. I have mustered ye all round this capstan; and\r\nye mates, flank me with your lances; and ye harpooneers, stand there\r\nwith your irons; and ye, stout mariners, ring me in, that I may in some\r\nsort revive a noble custom of my fisherman fathers before me. O men,\r\nyou will yet see that—Ha! boy, come back? bad pennies come not sooner.\r\nHand it me. Why, now, this pewter had run brimming again, wer’t not\r\nthou St. Vitus’ imp—away, thou ague!\r\n\r\n“Advance, ye mates! Cross your lances full before me. Well done! Let me\r\ntouch the axis.” So saying, with extended arm, he grasped the three\r\nlevel, radiating lances at their crossed centre; while so doing,\r\nsuddenly and nervously twitched them; meanwhile, glancing intently from\r\nStarbuck to Stubb; from Stubb to Flask. It seemed as though, by some\r\nnameless, interior volition, he would fain have shocked into them the\r\nsame fiery emotion accumulated within the Leyden jar of his own\r\nmagnetic life. The three mates quailed before his strong, sustained,\r\nand mystic aspect. Stubb and Flask looked sideways from him; the honest\r\neye of Starbuck fell downright.\r\n\r\n“In vain!” cried Ahab; “but, maybe, ’tis well. For did ye three but\r\nonce take the full-forced shock, then mine own electric thing, _that_\r\nhad perhaps expired from out me. Perchance, too, it would have dropped\r\nye dead. Perchance ye need it not. Down lances! And now, ye mates, I do\r\nappoint ye three cupbearers to my three pagan kinsmen there—yon three\r\nmost honorable gentlemen and noblemen, my valiant harpooneers. Disdain\r\nthe task? What, when the great Pope washes the feet of beggars, using\r\nhis tiara for ewer? Oh, my sweet cardinals! your own condescension,\r\n_that_ shall bend ye to it. I do not order ye; ye will it. Cut your\r\nseizings and draw the poles, ye harpooneers!”\r\n\r\nSilently obeying the order, the three harpooneers now stood with the\r\ndetached iron part of their harpoons, some three feet long, held, barbs\r\nup, before him.\r\n\r\n“Stab me not with that keen steel! Cant them; cant them over! know ye\r\nnot the goblet end? Turn up the socket! So, so; now, ye cup-bearers,\r\nadvance. The irons! take them; hold them while I fill!” Forthwith,\r\nslowly going from one officer to the other, he brimmed the harpoon\r\nsockets with the fiery waters from the pewter.\r\n\r\n“Now, three to three, ye stand. Commend the murderous chalices! Bestow\r\nthem, ye who are now made parties to this indissoluble league. Ha!\r\nStarbuck! but the deed is done! Yon ratifying sun now waits to sit upon\r\nit. Drink, ye harpooneers! drink and swear, ye men that man the\r\ndeathful whaleboat’s bow—Death to Moby Dick! God hunt us all, if we do\r\nnot hunt Moby Dick to his death!” The long, barbed steel goblets were\r\nlifted; and to cries and maledictions against the white whale, the\r\nspirits were simultaneously quaffed down with a hiss. Starbuck paled,\r\nand turned, and shivered. Once more, and finally, the replenished\r\npewter went the rounds among the frantic crew; when, waving his free\r\nhand to them, they all dispersed; and Ahab retired within his cabin.\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 37. Sunset.\r\n\r\n_The cabin; by the stern windows; Ahab sitting alone, and gazing out_.\r\n\r\nI leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where’er I\r\nsail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them;\r\nbut first I pass.\r\n\r\nYonder, by ever-brimming goblet’s rim, the warm waves blush like wine.\r\nThe gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun—slow dived from noon—goes\r\ndown; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then,\r\nthe crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet is it\r\nbright with many a gem; I the wearer, see not its far flashings; but\r\ndarkly feel that I wear that, that dazzlingly confounds. ’Tis iron—that\r\nI know—not gold. ’Tis split, too—that I feel; the jagged edge galls me\r\nso, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull,\r\nmine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain-battering fight!\r\n\r\nDry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sunrise nobly spurred\r\nme, so the sunset soothed. No more. This lovely light, it lights not\r\nme; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne’er enjoy. Gifted\r\nwith the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most\r\nsubtly and most malignantly! damned in the midst of Paradise! Good\r\nnight—good night! (_waving his hand, he moves from the window_.)\r\n\r\n’Twas not so hard a task. I thought to find one stubborn, at the least;\r\nbut my one cogged circle fits into all their various wheels, and they\r\nrevolve. Or, if you will, like so many ant-hills of powder, they all\r\nstand before me; and I their match. Oh, hard! that to fire others, the\r\nmatch itself must needs be wasting! What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and\r\nwhat I’ve willed, I’ll do! They think me mad—Starbuck does; but I’m\r\ndemoniac, I am madness maddened! That wild madness that’s only calm to\r\ncomprehend itself! The prophecy was that I should be dismembered;\r\nand—Aye! I lost this leg. I now prophesy that I will dismember my\r\ndismemberer. Now, then, be the prophet and the fulfiller one. That’s\r\nmore than ye, ye great gods, ever were. I laugh and hoot at ye, ye\r\ncricket-players, ye pugilists, ye deaf Burkes and blinded Bendigoes! I\r\nwill not say as schoolboys do to bullies—Take some one of your own\r\nsize; don’t pommel _me!_ No, ye’ve knocked me down, and I am up again;\r\nbut _ye_ have run and hidden. Come forth from behind your cotton bags!\r\nI have no long gun to reach ye. Come, Ahab’s compliments to ye; come\r\nand see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye cannot swerve me, else ye\r\nswerve yourselves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed\r\npurpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run.\r\nOver unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under\r\ntorrents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an\r\nangle to the iron way!\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 38. Dusk.\r\n\r\n_By the Mainmast; Starbuck leaning against it_.\r\n\r\nMy soul is more than matched; she’s overmanned; and by a madman!\r\nInsufferable sting, that sanity should ground arms on such a field! But\r\nhe drilled deep down, and blasted all my reason out of me! I think I\r\nsee his impious end; but feel that I must help him to it. Will I, nill\r\nI, the ineffable thing has tied me to him; tows me with a cable I have\r\nno knife to cut. Horrible old man! Who’s over him, he cries;—aye, he\r\nwould be a democrat to all above; look, how he lords it over all below!\r\nOh! I plainly see my miserable office,—to obey, rebelling; and worse\r\nyet, to hate with touch of pity! For in his eyes I read some lurid woe\r\nwould shrivel me up, had I it. 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