Ah! If only Maria knew that her own blood would decide everything in the end! Why, of course, she’d be glad. People don’t know her very well. Do you think Herman’s state of indecision satisfies her? She’s equally capable of getting worked up over abstractions. When she’s bent under her oil lamp at night, with her Bible open on the table, the majestic edifice, which rises up from the book like a column of smoke, isn’t made of cedar beams and hammered gold alone; in fact, the strongest mortar that holds the consolatory church together is made of angels’ wings and faith. And she knows you can build a Temple even out of moving water. The important thing is to build it. And this time it may be Maria’s lean, warrior’s milk that gives Herman the strength to stride back toward the open sea.

In the middle of December 1840 he arrives at Bedford. He walks the quay and inspects all the whaling ships. They’re rubbing their snouts against the trough. Where, now, is the pig he was supposed to be fattening, and what about that make-believe business with the apples, and the bank, and the school, and Betty, and Maria, and the whole of America? He’s out at the tip of the peninsula, already farther out to sea than he was at the end of the jetty in New York. The whole of America, like a worn, green rag dangling from the spur of a horseman who’s ready to mount, is at his heels.

All right then, kind sir, have you made up your mind? Do you want a draft horse or a racehorse? Do you want to sow seeds for your dreams, or are you in need of an animal that can play polo with your illusions? Is it a nag or a Waler you’re looking for? (Yes, kind sir, we use nearly the same word for a horse that plays polo and a boat that goes after whales.) You don’t look like the sort of man who works the land, though. If I do say so, it’s because of your legs. With legs like yours, it would be a shame to have to saddle a nag just to go at a slow walk from your “home sweet home” to the polo field and back again. To me, you have the look of someone in need of a different kind of excursion. You did well to inquire here. Who suggested our establishment? No one! There now, that’s the instinct of a true horseman. We’ve already fitted out Sir Henry Dana. It’s thanks to us he was able to write his famous book, Two Years Before the Mast. You’re acquainted with him? Oh, I beg your pardon, dear sir, so you’re at home here. Any friend of Sir Henry’s is a friend of ours. A famous horseman, dear sir! He has sent us lots of clients.