A Calm
Next day there was a calm, which added not a little to my impatience of
the ship. And, furthermore, by certain nameless associations revived in
me my old impressions upon first witnessing as a landsman this
phenomenon of the sea. Those impressions may merit a page.
To a landsman a calm is no joke. It not only revolutionizes his
abdomen, but unsettles his mind; tempts him to recant his belief in the
eternal fitness of things; in short, almost makes an infidel of him.
At first he is taken by surprise, never having dreamt of a state of
existence where existence itself seems suspended. He shakes himself in
his coat, to see whether it be empty or no. He closes his eyes, to test
the reality of the glassy expanse. He fetches a deep breath, by way of
experiment, and for the sake of witnessing the effect. If a reader of
books, Priestley on Necessity occurs to him; and he believes in that
old Sir Anthony Absolute to the very last chapter. His faith in Malte
Brun, however, begins to fail; for the geography, which from boyhood he
had implicitly confided in, always assured him, that though expatiating
all over the globe, the sea was at least margined by land. That over
against America, for example, was Asia. But it is a calm, and he grows
madly skeptical.
To his alarmed fancy, parallels and meridians become emphatically what
they are merely designated as being: imaginary lines drawn round the
earth’s surface.
The log assures him that he is in such a place; but the log is a liar;
for no place, nor any thing possessed of a local angularity, is to be
lighted upon in the watery waste.
At length horrible doubts overtake him as to the captain’s competency
to navigate his ship. The ignoramus must have lost his way, and drifted
into the outer confines of creation, the region of the everlasting
lull, introductory to a positive vacuity.
Thoughts of eternity thicken. He begins to feel anxious concerning his
soul.
The stillness of the calm is awful. His voice begins to grow strange
and portentous. He feels it in him like something swallowed too big for
the esophagus. It keeps up a sort of involuntary interior humming in
him, like a live beetle. His cranium is a dome full of reverberations.
The hollows of his very bones are as whispering galleries. He is afraid
to speak loud, lest he be stunned; like the man in the bass drum.
But more than all else is the consciousness of his utter helplessness.
Succor or sympathy there is none. Penitence for embarking avails not.
The final satisfaction of despairing may not be his with a relish. Vain
the idea of idling out the calm. He may sleep if he can, or purposely
delude himself into a crazy fancy, that he is merely at leisure. All
this he may compass; but he may not lounge; for to lounge is to be
idle; to be idle implies an absence of any thing to do; whereas there
is a calm to be endured: enough to attend to, Heaven knows.
His physical organization, obviously intended for locomotion, becomes a
fixture; for where the calm leaves him, there he remains. Even his
undoubted vested rights, comprised in his glorious liberty of volition,
become as naught. For of what use? He wills to go: to get away from the
calm: as ashore he would avoid the plague. But he can not; and how
foolish to revolve expedients. It is more hopeless than a bad marriage
in a land where there is no Doctors’ Commons. He has taken the ship to
wife, for better or for worse, for calm or for gale; and she is not to
be shuffled off. With yards akimbo, she says unto him scornfully, as
the old beldam said to the little dwarf:—“Help yourself”
And all this, and more than this, is a calm.