Daniel

Defoe

The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe

Das Leben und die Abenteuer des Robinson Crusoe

Übersetzt von Lore Krüger, Lizenz der Aufbau Verlagsgruppe
Synchronisation und Ergänzungen © Doppeltext 2012

TITELBLATT

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

IMPRESSUM

THE LIFE,
AND STRANGE SUR­PRIZ­ING
AD­VEN­TURES
OF ROBIN­SON CRU­SOE,
OF YORK, MAR­INER:
who lived eight and twenty years all alone in an un-in­hab­ited is­land on the coast of Amer­ica, near the mouth of the great river Oroonoque;
hav­ing been cast on shore by ship­wreck, wherein all the men per­ished but him­self.
With an ac­count how he was at last as strangely de­liv­er’d by pyr­ates.
Writ­ten by him­self.

PREFACE

If ever the story of any private man’s ad­ven­tures in the world were worth mak­ing pub­lic,
and were ac­cept­able when pub­lished, the Ed­it­or of this ac­count thinks this will be so.
The won­ders of this man’s life ex­ceed all that (he thinks) is to be found ex­tant;
the life of one man be­ing scarce cap­able of a great­er vari­ety.
The story is told with mod­esty, with ser­i­ous­ness, and with a re­li­gious ap­plic­a­tion of events to the uses to which wise men al­ways ap­ply them,
viz. to the in­struc­tion of oth­ers by this ex­ample,
and to jus­ti­fy and hon­our the wis­dom of Provid­ence in all the vari­ety of our cir­cum­stances, let them hap­pen how they will.
The ed­it­or be­lieves this nar­rat­ive to be a just his­tory of fact; neither is there any ap­pear­ance of fic­tion in it.
However this may be (for all such things are dis­puted),
he is of opin­ion that the im­prove­ment of it, as well as the di­ver­sion, as to the in­struc­tion of the read­er, will be the same;
and as such, he thinks, without farther com­pli­ment to the world, he does them a great ser­vice in the pub­lic­a­tion.

CHAPTER I

I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good fam­ily, though not of that coun­try,
my fath­er be­ing a for­eign­er of Bre­men, who settled first at Hull:
he got a good es­tate by mer­chand­ise, and leav­ing off his trade, lived af­ter­wards at York, from whence he had mar­ried my moth­er,
whose re­la­tions were named Robin­son, a very good fam­ily in that coun­try, and from whom I was called Robin­son Kreutzn­aer;
but by the usu­al cor­rup­tion of words in Eng­land, we are now called, nay we call ourselves, and write our name Cru­soe,
and so my com­pan­ions al­ways called me.
I had two eld­er broth­ers, one of which was lieu­ten­ant-col­on­el to an Eng­lish re­gi­ment of foot in Flanders, formerly com­manded by the fam­ous Col­on­el Lock­hart,
and was killed at the battle near Dunkirk against the Span­iards.
What be­came of my second broth­er I nev­er knew, any more than my fath­er or moth­er did know what was be­come of me.
Be­ing the third son of the fam­ily, and not bred to any trade, my head began to be filled very early with ram­bling thoughts:
my fath­er, who was very an­cient, had giv­en me a com­pet­ent share of learn­ing,
as far as house edu­ca­tion and a coun­try free-school gen­er­ally go, and de­signed me for the law;
but I would be sat­is­fied with noth­ing but go­ing to sea;
and my in­clin­a­tion to this led me so strongly against the will, nay the com­mands of my fath­er, and against all the en­treat­ies and per­sua­sions of my moth­er and oth­er friends,
that there seemed to be something fatal in that propen­sion of nature tend­ing dir­ectly to the life of misery which was to be­fal me.
My fath­er, a wise and grave man, gave me ser­i­ous and ex­cel­lent coun­sel against what he foresaw was my design.
He called me one morn­ing into his cham­ber, where he was con­fined by the gout, and ex­pos­tu­lated very warmly with me upon this sub­ject:
he asked me what reas­ons more than a mere wan­der­ing in­clin­a­tion I had for leav­ing my fath­er’s house and my nat­ive coun­try,
where I might be well in­tro­duced, and had a pro­spect of rais­ing my for­tune by ap­plic­a­tion and in­dustry, with a life of ease and pleas­ure.
He told me it was for men of des­per­ate for­tunes on one hand, or of as­pir­ing su­per­i­or for­tunes on the oth­er, who went abroad upon ad­ven­tures,
to rise by en­ter­prise, and make them­selves fam­ous in un­der­tak­ings of a nature out of the com­mon road;
that these things were all either too far above me, or too far be­low me;
that mine was the middle state, or what might be called the up­per sta­tion of low life,
which he had found by long ex­per­i­ence was the best state in the world, the most suited to hu­man hap­pi­ness,
not ex­posed to the miser­ies and hard­ships, the la­bour and suf­fer­ings of the mech­an­ic part of man­kind,
and not em­bar­rassed with the pride, lux­ury, am­bi­tion, and envy of the up­per part of man­kind,
he told me, I might judge of the hap­pi­ness of this state by this one thing, viz. that this was the state of life which all oth­er people en­vied;
that kings have fre­quently lamen­ted the miser­able con­sequences of be­ing born to great things,
and wish they had been placed in the middle of the two ex­tremes, between the mean and the great;
that the wise man gave his testi­mony to this as the just stand­ard of true fe­li­city, when he prayed to have neither poverty nor riches.
He bid me ob­serve it, and I should al­ways find, that the calam­it­ies of life were shared among the up­per and lower part of man­kind;
but that the middle sta­tion had the few­est dis­asters, and was not ex­posed to so many vi­cis­situdes as the high­er or lower part of man­kind;
nay, they were not sub­jec­ted to so many dis­tem­pers and un­eas­i­nesses, either of body or mind,
as those were, who by vi­cious liv­ing, lux­ury, and ex­tra­vag­ances, on one hand,
or by hard la­bour, want of ne­ces­sar­ies, and mean or in­suf­fi­cient diet, on the oth­er hand, bring dis­tem­pers upon them­selves by the nat­ur­al con­sequences of their way of liv­ing;
that the middle sta­tion of life was cal­cu­lated for all kind of vir­tues and all kind of en­joy­ments;
that peace and plenty were the hand­maids of a middle for­tune; that tem­per­ance, mod­er­a­tion, quiet­ness, health, so­ci­ety,
all agree­able di­ver­sions, and all de­sir­able pleas­ures, were the bless­ings at­tend­ing the middle sta­tion of life;
that this way men went si­lently and smoothly through the world, and com­fort­ably out of it,
not em­bar­rassed with the la­bours of the hands or of the head,
not sold to the life of slavery for daily bread, or har­assed with per­plexed cir­cum­stances,
which rob the soul of peace, and the body of rest; not en­raged with the pas­sion of envy, or secret burn­ing lust of am­bi­tion for great things;
but in easy cir­cum­stances slid­ing gently through the world, and sens­ibly tast­ing the sweets of liv­ing, without the bit­ter,
feel­ing that they are happy, and learn­ing by every day’s ex­per­i­ence to know it more sens­ibly.
After this, he pressed me earn­estly, and in the most af­fec­tion­ate man­ner, not to play the young man, not to pre­cip­it­ate my­self into miser­ies
which nature and the sta­tion of life I was born in seemed to have provided against;
that I was un­der no ne­ces­sity of seek­ing my bread;
that he would do well for me, and en­deav­our to enter me fairly into the sta­tion of life which he had been just re­com­mend­ing to me;
and that if I was not very easy and happy in the world,
it must be my mere fate or fault that must hinder it, and that he should have noth­ing to an­swer for,
hav­ing thus dis­charged his duty in warn­ing me against meas­ures which he knew would be to my hurt:
in a word, that as he would do very kind things for me if I would stay and settle at home as he dir­ec­ted,
so he would not have so much hand in my mis­for­tunes, as to give me any en­cour­age­ment to go away:
and to close all, he told me I had my eld­er broth­er for an ex­ample,
to whom he had used the same earn­est per­sua­sions to keep him from go­ing into the Low Coun­try wars, but could not pre­vail,
his young de­sires prompt­ing him to run into the army, where he was killed;
and though he said he would not cease to pray for me, yet he would ven­ture to say to me, that if I did take this fool­ish step, God would not bless me,
and I would have leis­ure here­after to re­flect upon hav­ing neg­lected his coun­sel
when there might be none to as­sist in my re­cov­ery.
I ob­served in this last part of his dis­course, which was truly proph­et­ic,
though I sup­pose my fath­er did not know it to be so him­self; I say, I ob­served the tears run down his face very plen­ti­fully,
and es­pe­cially when he spoke of my broth­er who was killed;
and that when he spoke of my hav­ing leis­ure to re­pent, and none to as­sist me,
he was so moved, that he broke off the dis­course, and told me, his heart was so full he could say no more to me.
I was sin­cerely af­fected with this dis­course, as in­deed who could be oth­er­wise?
and I re­solved not to think of go­ing abroad any more, but to settle at home ac­cord­ing to my fath­er’s de­sire.
But, alas! a few days wore it all off; and in short, to pre­vent any of my fath­er’s farther im­por­tun­it­ies, in a few weeks after I re­solved to run quite away from him.
However, I did not act so hast­ily neither as my first heat of res­ol­u­tion promp­ted,
but I took my moth­er, at a time when I thought her a little pleas­anter
than or­din­ary, and told her, that my thoughts were so en­tirely bent upon see­ing the world,
that I should nev­er settle to any thing with res­ol­u­tion enough to go through with it,
and my fath­er had bet­ter give me his con­sent than force me to go without it;
that I was now eight­een years old, which was too late to go ap­pren­tice to a trade, or clerk to an at­tor­ney;
that I was sure, if I did, I should nev­er serve out my time, and I should cer­tainly run away from my mas­ter be­fore my time was out, and go to sea;
and if she would speak to my fath­er to let me go one voy­age abroad,
if I came home again, and did not like it, I would go no more, and I would prom­ise by a double di­li­gence to re­cov­er that time I had lost.
This put my moth­er into a great pas­sion: she told me, she knew it would be to no pur­pose to speak to my fath­er upon any such sub­ject;
that he knew too well what was my in­terest to give his con­sent to any such thing so much for my hurt;
and that she wondered how I could think of any such thing after such a dis­course as I had had with my fath­er,
and such kind and tender ex­pres­sions as she knew my fath­er had used to me;
and that, in short, if I would ruin my­self, there was no help for me;
but I might de­pend I should nev­er have their con­sent to it:
that for her part she would not have so much hand in my de­struc­tion;
and I should nev­er have it to say, that my moth­er was will­ing when my fath­er was not.
Though my moth­er re­fused to move it to my fath­er, yet, as I have heard af­ter­wards, she re­por­ted all the dis­course to him,
and that my fath­er, after shew­ing a great con­cern at it, said to her with a sigh,
“That boy might be happy if he would stay at home; but if he goes abroad, he will be the most miser­able wretch that was ever born; I can give no con­sent to it.”
It was not till al­most a year after this that I broke loose, though, in the mean­time, I con­tin­ued ob­stin­ately deaf to all pro­pos­als of set­tling to busi­ness,
and fre­quently ex­pos­tu­lat­ing with my fath­er and moth­er about their be­ing so pos­it­ively de­term­ined against what they knew my in­clin­a­tions promp­ted me to.
But be­ing one day at Hull, where I went cas­u­ally, and without any pur­pose of mak­ing an elope­ment that time;
but I say, be­ing there, and one of my com­pan­ions be­ing go­ing by sea to Lon­don, in his fath­er’s ship, and prompt­ing me to go with them,
with the com­mon al­lure­ment of sea­far­ing men, viz. that it should cost me noth­ing for my pas­sage,
I con­sul­ted neither fath­er or moth­er any more, not so much as sent them word of it; but leav­ing them to hear of it as they might,
without ask­ing God’s bless­ing, or my fath­er’s, without any con­sid­er­a­tion of cir­cum­stances or con­sequences,
and in an ill hour, God knows, on the first of Septem­ber, 1651, I went on board a ship bound for Lon­don.
Nev­er any young ad­ven­turer’s mis­for­tunes, I be­lieve, began soon­er, or con­tin­ued longer than mine.
The ship was no soon­er got­ten out of the Hum­ber, but the wind began to blow, and the waves to rise in a most fright­ful man­ner;
and, as I had nev­er been at sea be­fore, I was most in­ex­press­ibly sick in body, and ter­ri­fied in mind.
I began now ser­i­ously to re­flect upon what I had done, and how justly I was over­taken by the judg­ment of Heav­en
for my wicked leav­ing my fath­er’s house, and abandon­ing my duty;
all the good coun­sel of my par­ents, my fath­er’s tears and my moth­er’s en­treat­ies, came now fresh into my mind;
and my con­science, which was not yet come to the pitch of hard­ness to which it has been since,
re­proached me with the con­tempt of ad­vice, and the breach of my duty to God and my fath­er.
All this while the storm in­creased, and the sea, which I had nev­er been upon be­fore, went very high,
though noth­ing like what I have seen many times since; no, nor like what I saw a few days after:
but it was enough to af­fect me then, who was but a young sail­or, and had nev­er known any thing of the mat­ter.
I ex­pec­ted every wave would have swal­lowed us up,
and that every time the ship fell down, as I thought, in the trough or hol­low of the sea, we should nev­er rise more;
and in this agony of mind I made many vows and res­ol­u­tions, that if it would please God here to spare my life this one voy­age,
if ever I got once my foot upon dry land again I would go dir­ectly home to my fath­er,
and nev­er set it into a ship again while I lived; that I would take his ad­vice, and nev­er run my­self into such miser­ies as these any more.
Now I saw plainly the good­ness of his ob­ser­va­tions about the middle sta­tion of life, how easy, how com­fort­ably he had lived all his days,
and nev­er had been ex­posed to tem­pests at sea, or troubles on shore;
and I re­solved that I would, like a true re­pent­ing prod­ig­al, go home to my fath­er.
These wise and sober thoughts con­tin­ued all the while the storm con­tin­ued, and in­deed some time after;
but the next day the wind was abated, and the sea calmer, and I began to be a little in­ured to it:
however, I was very grave for all that day, be­ing also a little sea-sick still;
but to­wards night the weath­er cleared up, the wind was quite over, and a charm­ing fine even­ing fol­lowed;
the sun went down per­fectly clear, and rose so the next morn­ing; and hav­ing little or no wind,
and a smooth sea, the sun shin­ing upon it, the sight was, as I thought, the most de­light­ful that ever I saw.
I had slept well in the night, and was now no more sea-sick, but very cheer­ful,
look­ing with won­der upon the sea that was so rough and ter­rible the day be­fore, and could be so calm and so pleas­ant in so little time after.
And now, lest my good res­ol­u­tions should con­tin­ue, my com­pan­ion, who had in­deed en­ticed me away, comes to me:
“Well, Bob,” says he, (clap­ping me upon the shoulder) “how do you do after it?
I war­rant you were frighted, wa’n’t you, last night, when it blew but a cap­ful of wind?”
— “A cap­ful do you call it?” said I; “it was a ter­rible storm.”
— “A storm you fool you,” replied he, “do you call that a storm? why it was noth­ing at all;
give us but a good ship and sea-room, and we think noth­ing of such a squall of wind as that; but you’re but a fresh-wa­ter sail­or, Bob.
Come, let us make a bowl of punch, and we’ll for­get all that; do you see what charm­ing weath­er it is now?”
To make short this sad part of my story, we went the old way of all sail­ors; the punch was made,
and I was made drunk with it; and in that one night’s wicked­ness I drowned all my re­pent­ance,
all my re­flec­tions upon my past con­duct, and all my res­ol­u­tions for my fu­ture.
In a word, as the sea was re­turned to its smooth­ness of sur­face and settled calmness by the abate­ment of that storm,
so the hurry of my thoughts be­ing over, my fears and ap­pre­hen­sions of be­ing swal­lowed up by the sea be­ing for­got­ten,
and the cur­rent of my former de­sires re­turned, I en­tirely for­got the vows and prom­ises that I made in my dis­tress.
I found, in­deed, some in­ter­vals of re­flec­tion, and the ser­i­ous thoughts did, as it were, en­deav­our to re­turn again some­times;
but I shook them off, and roused my­self from them as it were from a dis­tem­per,
and ap­ply­ing my­self to drink­ing and com­pany, soon mastered the re­turn of those fits, for so I called them;
and I had in five or six days got as com­plete a vic­tory over con­science,
as any young fel­low that re­solved not to be troubled with it could de­sire:
but I was to have an­oth­er tri­al for it still; and Provid­ence, as in such cases gen­er­ally it does, re­solved to leave me en­tirely without ex­cuse:
for if I would not take this for a de­liv­er­ance, the next was to be such a one
as the worst and most hardened wretch among us would con­fess both the danger and the mercy.
The sixth day of our be­ing at sea we came into Yar­mouth Roads;
the wind hav­ing been con­trary, and the weath­er calm, we had made but little way since the storm.
Here we were ob­liged to come to an­chor, and here we lay, the wind con­tinu­ing con­trary, viz. at south-west, for sev­en or eight days,
dur­ing which time a great many ships from New­castle came into the same roads, as the com­mon har­bour where the ships might wait for a wind for the river.
We had not, however, rid here so long, but should have tided it up the river,
but that the wind blew too fresh; and after we had lain four or five days, blew very hard.
However, the roads be­ing reckoned as good as a har­bour, the an­chor­age good, and our ground tackle very strong,
our men were un­con­cerned, and not in the least ap­pre­hens­ive of danger,
but spent the time in rest and mirth, after the man­ner of the sea;
but the eighth day in the morn­ing the wind in­creased, and we had all hands at work to strike our top­masts,
and make every thing snug and close, that the ship might ride as easy as pos­sible.
By noon the sea went very high in­deed, and our ship rid fore­castle in, shipped sev­er­al seas,
and we thought once or twice our an­chor had come home;
upon which our mas­ter ordered out the sheet an­chor; so that we rode with two an­chors ahead, and the cables veered out to the bet­ter end.
By this time it blew a ter­rible storm in­deed; and now I began to see ter­ror and amazement in the faces even of the sea­men them­selves.
The mas­ter, though vi­gil­ant in the busi­ness of pre­serving the ship,
yet as he went in and out of his cab­in by me, I could hear him softly to him­self say sev­er­al times,
“Lord be mer­ci­ful to us! we shall be all lost, we shall be all un­done!” and the like.
Dur­ing these first hur­ries I was stu­pid, ly­ing still in my cab­in, which was in the steer­age, and can­not de­scribe my tem­per:
I could ill re­as­sume the first pen­it­ence which I had so ap­par­ently trampled upon, and hardened my­self against:
I thought the bit­ter­ness of death had been past, and that this would be noth­ing like the first:
but when the mas­ter him­self came by me, as I said just now, and said we should be all lost,
I was dread­fully frighted: I got up out of my cab­in, and looked out;
but such a dis­mal sight I nev­er saw; the sea went moun­tains high, and broke upon us every three or four minutes:
when I could look about, I could see noth­ing but dis­tress round us:
two ships that rid near us, we found, had cut their masts by the board, be­ing deep loaden; and our men cried out,
that a ship which rid about a mile ahead of us was foundered.
Two more ships be­ing driv­en from their an­chors, were run out of the roads to sea, at all ad­ven­tures, and that with not a mast stand­ing.
The light ships fared the best, as not so much la­bour­ing in the sea; but two or three of them drove,
and came close by us, run­ning away with only their sprit-sail out be­fore the wind.
To­wards even­ing the mate and boat­swain begged the mas­ter of our ship to let them cut away the fore-mast, which he was very un­will­ing to do:
but the boat­swain protest­ing to him, that if he did not, the ship would founder, he con­sen­ted;
and when they had cut away the fore-mast, the main-mast stood so loose, and shook the ship so much,
they were ob­liged to cut her away also, and make a clear deck.
Any one may judge what a con­di­tion I must be in at all this,
who was but a young sail­or, and who had been in such a fright be­fore at but a little.
But if I can ex­press at this dis­tance the thoughts I had about me at that time,
I was in ten­fold more hor­ror of mind upon ac­count of my former con­vic­tions,
and the hav­ing re­turned from them to the res­ol­u­tions I had wickedly taken at first, than I was at death it­self;
and these, ad­ded to the ter­ror of the storm, put me in such a con­di­tion, that I can by no words de­scribe it.
But the worst was not come yet; the storm con­tin­ued with such fury, that the sea­men them­selves ac­know­ledged they had nev­er known a worse.
We had a good ship, but she was deep loaden, and wal­lowed in the sea, that the sea­men every now and then cried out, she would founder.
It was my ad­vant­age in one re­spect, that I did not know what they meant by founder till I in­quired.
However, the storm was so vi­ol­ent, that I saw what is not of­ten seen,
the mas­ter, the boat­swain, and some oth­ers more sens­ible than the rest, at their pray­ers, and ex­pect­ing every mo­ment when the ship would go to the bot­tom.
In the middle of the night, and un­der all the rest of our dis­tresses, one of the men that had been down on pur­pose to see, cried out, we had sprang a leak;
an­oth­er said, there was four foot wa­ter in the hold.
Then all hands were called to the pump. At that very word my heart, as I thought, died with­in me,
and I fell back­wards upon the side of my bed where I sat, into the cab­in.
However, the men roused me, and told me, that I that was able to do noth­ing be­fore, was as well able to pump as an­oth­er;
at which I stirred up, and went to the pump and worked very heart­ily.
While this was do­ing, the mas­ter see­ing some light col­li­ers, who, not able to ride out the storm,
were ob­liged to slip and run away to sea, and would come near us, ordered to fire a gun as a sig­nal of dis­tress.
I, who knew noth­ing what that meant, was so sur­prised, that I thought the ship had broke, or some dread­ful thing happened.
In a word, I was so sur­prised, that I fell down in a swoon.
As this was a time when every body had his own life to think of, nobody minded me, or what was be­come of me;
but an­oth­er man stept up to the pump, and thrust­ing me aside with his foot, let me lie, think­ing I had been dead;
and it was a great while be­fore I came to my­self.
We worked on; but the wa­ter in­creas­ing in the hold, it was ap­par­ent that the ship would founder;
and though the storm began to abate a little; yet as it was not pos­sible she could swim till we might run into a port,
so the mas­ter con­tin­ued fir­ing guns for help;
and a light ship, who had rid it out just ahead of us, ven­tured a boat out to help us.
It was with the ut­most haz­ard the boat came near us, but it was im­possible for as to get on board, or for the boat to lie near the ship’s side,
till at last the men row­ing very heart­ily, and ven­tur­ing their lives to save ours, our men cast them a rope over the stern with a buoy to it, and then veered it out a great length,
which they after great la­bour and haz­ard took hold of, and we hauled them close un­der our stern, and got all into their boat.
It was to no pur­pose for them or us, after we were in the boat, to think of reach­ing to their own ship;
so all agreed to let her drive, and only to pull her in to­wards shore as much as we could;
and our mas­ter prom­ised them, that if the boat was staved upon shore he would make it good to their mas­ter:
so partly row­ing and partly driv­ing, our boat went away to the north­ward, slop­ing to­wards the shore al­most as far as Win­ter­ton-Ness.
We were not much more than a quarter of an hour out of our ship but we saw her sink,
and then I un­der­stood for the first time what was meant by a ship founder­ing in the sea.
I must ac­know­ledge I had hardly eyes to look up when the sea­men told me she was sink­ing;
for from that mo­ment they rather put me into the boat, than that I might be said to go in; my heart was, as it were, dead with­in me,
partly with fright, partly with hor­ror of mind, and the thoughts of what was yet be­fore me.
While we were in this con­di­tion, the men yet la­bour­ing at the oar to bring the boat near the shore,
we could see, when our boat mount­ing the waves we were able to see the shore, a great many people run­ning along the shore to as­sist us when we should come near;
but we made but slow way to­wards the shore, nor were we able to reach the shore,
till be­ing past the light-house at Win­ter­ton, the shore falls off to the west­ward to­wards Cromer, and so the land broke off a little the vi­ol­ence of the wind.
Here we got in, and, though not without much dif­fi­culty, got all safe on shore,
and walked af­ter­wards on foot to Yar­mouth, where, as un­for­tu­nate men, we were used with great hu­man­ity,
as well by the ma­gis­trates of the town, who as­signed us good quar­ters, as by par­tic­u­lar mer­chants and own­ers of ships,
and had money giv­en us suf­fi­cient to carry us either to Lon­don or back to Hull, as we thought fit.
Had I now had the sense to have gone back to Hull, and have gone home, I had been happy,
and my fath­er, an em­blem of our blessed Sa­viour’s par­able, had even killed the fat­ted calf for me;
for hear­ing the ship I went away in was cast away in Yar­mouth Roads,
it was a great while be­fore he had any as­sur­ance that I was not drowned.
But my ill fate pushed me on now with an ob­stin­acy that noth­ing could res­ist;
and though I had sev­er­al times loud calls from my reas­on and my more com­posed judg­ment to go home, yet I had no power to do it.
I know not what to call this, nor will I urge that it is a secret over-rul­ing de­cree
that hur­ries us on to be the in­stru­ments of our own de­struc­tion,
even though it be be­fore us, and that we push upon it with our eyes open.
Cer­tainly noth­ing but some such de­creed un­avoid­able misery at­tend­ing, and which it was im­possible for me to es­cape, could have pushed me for­ward
against the calm reas­on­ings and per­sua­sions of my most re­tired thoughts, and against two such vis­ible in­struc­tions as I had met with in my first at­tempt.
My com­rade, who had helped to harden me be­fore, and who was the mas­ter’s son, was now less for­ward than I.
The first time he spoke to me after we were at Yar­mouth, which was not till two or three days,
for we were sep­ar­ated in the town to sev­er­al quar­ters; I say, the first time he saw me, it ap­peared his tone was altered,
and look­ing very mel­an­choly, and shak­ing his head, asked me how I did,
and telling his fath­er who I was, and how I had come this voy­age only for a tri­al, in or­der to go farther abroad;
his fath­er turn­ing to me with a very grave and con­cerned tone, “Young man,” says he, “you ought nev­er to go to sea any more;
you ought to take this for a plain and vis­ible token that you are not to be a sea­far­ing man.”
— “Why, Sir,” said I, “will you go to sea no more?” “That is an­oth­er case,” said he;
“it is my call­ing, and there­fore my duty; but as you made this voy­age for a tri­al,
you see what a taste Heav­en has giv­en you of what you are to ex­pect if you per­sist:
per­haps this is all be­fallen us on your ac­count, like Jo­nah in the ship of Tar­shish.
Pray,” con­tin­ues he, “what are you? and on what ac­count did you go to sea?”
Upon that I told him some of my story; at the end of which he burst out with a strange kind of pas­sion;
“What had I done,” says he, “that such an un­happy wretch should come into my ship?
I would not set my foot in the same ship with thee again for a thou­sand pounds.”
This in­deed was, as I said, an ex­cur­sion of his spir­its, which were yet agit­ated by the sense of his loss, and was farther than he could have au­thor­ity to go.
However, he af­ter­wards talked very gravely to me, ex­hor­ted me to go back to my fath­er, and not tempt Provid­ence to my ruin;
told me I might see a vis­ible hand of Heav­en against me. “And young man,” said he, “de­pend upon it,
if you do not go back, wherever you go, you will meet with noth­ing but dis­asters and dis­ap­point­ments, till your fath­er’s words are ful­filled upon you.”
We par­ted soon after; for I made him little an­swer, and I saw him no more: which way he went, I know not.
As for me, hav­ing some money in my pock­et, I trav­elled to Lon­don by land;
and there, as well as on the road, had many struggles with my­self, what course of life I should take, and wheth­er I should go home, or go to sea.
As to go­ing home, shame op­posed the best mo­tions that offered to my thoughts;
and it im­me­di­ately oc­curred to me how I should be laughed at among the neigh­bours, and should be ashamed to see,
not my fath­er and moth­er only, but even every body else;
from whence I have since of­ten ob­served, how in­con­gru­ous and ir­ra­tion­al the com­mon tem­per of man­kind is, es­pe­cially of youth,
to that reas­on which ought to guide them in such cases, viz. that they are not ashamed to sin, and yet are ashamed to re­pent;
nor ashamed of the ac­tion for which they ought justly to be es­teemed fools,
but are ashamed of the re­turn­ing, which only can make them be es­teemed wise men.
In this state of life however I re­mained some time, un­cer­tain what meas­ures to take, and what course of life to lead.
An ir­res­ist­ible re­luct­ance con­tin­ued to go­ing home; and as I stayed a while, the re­mem­brance of the dis­tress I had been in wore off;
and as that abated, the little mo­tion I had in my de­sires to a re­turn wore off with it,
till at last I quite laid aside the thoughts of it, and looked out for a voy­age.

Daniel Defoe
The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe / Das Leben und die Abenteuer des Robinson Crusoe
Zweisprachige Ausgabe
Übersetzt von Lore Krüger

Dies ist ein interaktives E-Book. Klicken Sie auf den Text, um die Übersetzung einzublenden.

Der Originaltext ist gemeinfrei. Die Rechte für die synchronisierte zweisprachige Ausgabe liegen bei Doppeltext.

Die Übersetzung erschien erstmals 1973 als Ausgabe der Bibliothek der Weltliteratur im Aufbau Verlag Berlin und Weimar.
Übersetzung © Aufbau Verlag GmbH & Co. KG, Berlin 1973, 2008

Unser Programm umfasst viele weitere zweisprachige Titel. Besuchen Sie www.doppeltext.com, um mehr zu erfahren.

Wir freuen uns auf Ihre Meinung und Kritik.

Doppeltext
Igor Kogan & Tatiana Zelenska
Karwendelstr. 25
D-81369 München
Tel. +49-89-76 75 55 34
www.doppeltext.com
info@doppeltext.com