-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Герман Мелвилл
-
- Моби Дик
-
- Стр. 3/297
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Chief
among
these
motives
was
the
overwhelming
idea
of
the
great
whale
himself
.
Such
a
portentous
and
mysterious
monster
roused
all
my
curiosity
.
Then
the
wild
and
distant
seas
where
he
rolled
his
island
bulk
;
the
undeliverable
,
nameless
perils
of
the
whale
;
these
,
with
all
the
attending
marvels
of
a
thousand
Patagonian
sights
and
sounds
,
helped
to
sway
me
to
my
wish
.
With
other
men
,
perhaps
,
such
things
would
not
have
been
inducements
;
but
as
for
me
,
I
am
tormented
with
an
everlasting
itch
for
things
remote
.
I
love
to
sail
forbidden
seas
,
and
land
on
barbarous
coasts
.
Not
ignoring
what
is
good
,
I
am
quick
to
perceive
a
horror
,
and
could
still
be
social
with
it
--
would
they
let
me
--
since
it
is
but
well
to
be
on
friendly
terms
with
all
the
inmates
of
the
place
one
lodges
in
.
By
reason
of
these
things
,
then
,
the
whaling
voyage
was
welcome
;
the
great
flood-gates
of
the
wonder-world
swung
open
,
and
in
the
wild
conceits
that
swayed
me
to
my
purpose
,
two
and
two
there
floated
into
my
inmost
soul
,
endless
processions
of
the
whale
,
and
,
mid
most
of
them
all
,
one
grand
hooded
phantom
,
like
a
snow
hill
in
the
air
.
I
stuffed
a
shirt
or
two
into
my
old
carpet-bag
,
tucked
it
under
my
arm
,
and
started
for
Cape
Horn
and
the
Pacific
.
Quitting
the
good
city
of
old
Manhatto
,
I
duly
arrived
in
New
Bedford
.
It
was
a
Saturday
night
in
December
.
Much
was
I
disappointed
upon
learning
that
the
little
packet
for
Nantucket
had
already
sailed
,
and
that
no
way
of
reaching
that
place
would
offer
,
till
the
following
Monday
.
As
most
young
candidates
for
the
pains
and
penalties
of
whaling
stop
at
this
same
New
Bedford
,
thence
to
embark
on
their
voyage
,
it
may
as
well
be
related
that
I
,
for
one
,
had
no
idea
of
so
doing
.
For
my
mind
was
made
up
to
sail
in
no
other
than
a
Nantucket
craft
,
because
there
was
a
fine
,
boisterous
something
about
everything
connected
with
that
famous
old
island
,
which
amazingly
pleased
me
.
Besides
though
New
Bedford
has
of
late
been
gradually
monopolizing
the
business
of
whaling
,
and
though
in
this
matter
poor
old
Nantucket
is
now
much
behind
her
,
yet
Nantucket
was
her
great
original
--
the
Tyre
of
this
Carthage
;
--
the
place
where
the
first
dead
American
whale
was
stranded
.
Where
else
but
from
Nantucket
did
those
aboriginal
whalemen
,
the
Red-Men
,
first
sally
out
in
canoes
to
give
chase
to
the
Leviathan
?
And
where
but
from
Nantucket
,
too
,
did
that
first
adventurous
little
sloop
put
forth
,
partly
laden
with
imported
cobblestones
--
so
goes
the
story
--
to
throw
at
the
whales
,
in
order
to
discover
when
they
were
nigh
enough
to
risk
a
harpoon
from
the
bowsprit
?
Now
having
a
night
,
a
day
,
and
still
another
night
following
before
me
in
New
Bedford
,
ere
could
embark
for
my
destined
port
,
it
became
a
matter
of
concernment
where
I
was
to
eat
and
sleep
meanwhile
.
It
was
a
very
dubious-looking
,
nay
,
a
very
dark
and
dismal
night
,
bitingly
cold
and
cheerless
.
I
knew
no
one
in
the
place
.
With
anxious
grapnels
I
had
sounded
my
pocket
,
and
only
brought
up
a
few
pieces
of
silver
--
So
,
wherever
you
go
,
Ishmael
,
said
I
to
myself
,
as
I
stood
in
the
middle
of
a
dreary
street
shouldering
my
bag
,
and
comparing
the
towards
the
north
with
the
darkness
towards
the
south
--
wherever
in
your
wisdom
you
may
conclude
to
lodge
for
the
night
,
my
dear
Ishmael
,
be
sure
to
inquire
the
price
,
and
do
n't
be
too
particular
.
With
halting
steps
I
paced
the
streets
,
and
passed
the
sign
of
"
The
Crossed
Harpoons
"
--
but
it
looked
too
expensive
and
jolly
there
.
Further
on
,
from
the
bright
red
windows
of
the
"
Sword-Fish
Inn
,
"
there
came
such
fervent
rays
,
that
it
seemed
to
have
melted
the
packed
snow
and
ice
from
before
the
house
,
for
everywhere
else
the
congealed
frost
lay
ten
inches
thick
in
a
hard
,
asphaltic
pavement
--
rather
weary
for
me
,
when
I
struck
my
foot
against
the
flinty
projections
,
because
from
hard
,
remorseless
service
the
soles
of
my
boots
were
in
a
most
miserable
plight
.
Too
expensive
and
jolly
,
again
thought
I
,
pausing
one
moment
to
watch
the
broad
glare
in
the
street
,
and
hear
the
sounds
of
the
tinkling
glasses
within
.
But
go
on
,
Ishmael
,
said
I
at
last
;
do
n't
you
hear
?
get
away
from
before
the
door
;
your
patched
boots
are
stopping
the
way
.
So
on
I
went
.
I
now
by
instinct
followed
the
streets
that
took
me
waterward
,
for
there
,
doubtless
,
were
the
cheapest
,
if
not
the
cheeriest
inns
.
Such
dreary
streets
!
blocks
of
blackness
,
not
houses
,
on
either
hand
,
and
here
and
there
a
candle
,
like
a
candle
moving
about
in
a
tomb
.
At
this
hour
of
the
night
,
of
the
last
day
of
the
week
,
that
quarter
of
the
town
proved
all
but
deserted
.
But
presently
I
came
to
a
smoky
light
proceeding
from
a
low
,
wide
building
,
the
door
of
which
stood
invitingly
open
.
It
had
a
careless
look
,
as
if
it
were
meant
for
the
uses
of
the
public
;
so
,
entering
,
the
first
thing
I
did
was
to
stumble
over
an
ash-box
in
the
porch
.
Ha
!
thought
I
,
ha
,
as
the
flying
particles
almost
choked
me
,
are
these
ashes
from
that
destroyed
city
,
Gomorrah
?
But
"
The
Crossed
Harpoons
,
"
and
the
"
The
Sword-Fish
?
"
--
this
,
then
must
needs
be
the
sign
of
"
The
Trap
.
"
However
,
I
picked
myself
up
and
hearing
a
loud
voice
within
,
pushed
on
and
opened
a
second
,
interior
door
.
It
seemed
the
great
Black
Parliament
sitting
in
Tophet
.
A
hundred
black
faces
turned
round
in
their
rows
to
peer
;
and
beyond
,
a
black
Angel
of
Doom
was
beating
a
book
in
a
pulpit
.
It
was
a
negro
church
;
and
the
preacher
's
text
was
about
the
blackness
of
darkness
,
and
the
weeping
and
wailing
and
teeth-gnashing
there
.
Ha
,
Ishmael
,
muttered
I
,
backing
out
,
Wretched
entertainment
at
the
sign
of
'
The
Trap
!
'
Moving
on
,
I
at
last
came
to
a
dim
sort
of
light
not
far
from
the
docks
,
and
heard
a
forlorn
creaking
in
the
air
;
and
looking
up
,
saw
a
swinging
sign
over
the
door
with
a
white
painting
upon
it
,
faintly
representing
tall
straight
jet
of
misty
spray
,
and
these
words
underneath
--
"
The
Spouter
Inn
:
--
Peter
Coffin
.
"
