“Just as you please; I’m sorry I can’t spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress,and it’s a plaguy rough board here”—feeling of the knots and notches. “But wait a bit,Skrimshander; I’ve got a carpenter’s plane there in the bar—wait, I say,and I’ll make ye snug enough.” So saying he procured the plane;and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting the bench,vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the while grinning like an ape.The shavings flew right and left; till at last the plane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot.The landlord was near spraining his wrist,and I told him for heaven’s sake to quit—the bed was soft enough to suit me,and I did not know how all the planing in the world could make eider down of a pine plank.So gathering up the shavings with another grin,and throwing them into the great stove in the middle of the room, he went about his business, and left me in a brown study.
I now took the measure of the bench, and found that it was a foot too short;but that could be mended with a chair. But it was a foot too narrow,and the other bench in the room was about four inches higher than the planed one—so there was no yoking them.I then placed the first bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall,leaving a little interval between, for my back to settle down in.But I soon found that there came such a draught of cold air over me from under the sill of the window,that this plan would never do at all, especially as another current from the rickety door met the one from the window,and both together formed a series of small whirlwinds in the immediate vicinity of the spot where I had thought to spend the night.
The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop,couldn’t I steal a march on him—bolt his door inside, and jump into his bed,not to be wakened by the most violent knockings?It seemed no bad idea; but upon second thoughts I dismissed it.For who could tell but what the next morning, so soon as I popped out of the room,the harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!
Still, looking round me again, and seeing no possible chance of spending a sufferable night unless in some other person’s bed,I began to think that after all I might be cherishing unwarrantable prejudices against this unknown harpooneer.Thinks I, I’ll wait awhile; he must be dropping in before long. I’ll have a good look at him then,and perhaps we may become jolly good bedfellows after all—there’s no telling.
But though the other boarders kept coming in by ones, twos, and threes, and going to bed, yet no sign of my harpooneer.
“Landlord!” said I, “what sort of a chap is he—does he always keep such late hours?” It was now hard upon twelve o’clock.
The landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle,and seemed to be mightily tickled at something beyond my comprehension. “No,” he answered,“generally he’s an early bird—airley to bed and airley to rise—yes,he’s the bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see,and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”
“Can’t sell his head?—What sort of a bamboozingly story is this you are telling me?” getting into a towering rage. “Do you pretend to say, landlord,that this harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around this town?”
“That’s precisely it,” said the landlord, “and I told him he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.”
“With what?” shouted I.
“With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”
“I tell you what it is, landlord,” said I quite calmly,“you’d better stop spinning that yarn to me—I’m not green.”
“May be not,” taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick,“but I rayther guess you’ll be done _brown_ if that ere harpooneer hears you a slanderin’ his head. ”
“I’ll break it for him,” said I, now flying into a passion again at this unaccountable farrago of the landlord’s.
“It’s broke a’ready,” said he.
“Broke,” said I—“_broke_, do you mean?”
“Sartain, and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”
“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a snow-storm—“landlord, stop whittling.You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay.I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one;that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer,whom I have not yet seen, you persist in telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories tending to beget in me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow—a sort of connexion, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to unsay that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no idea of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, _you_ I mean, landlord, _you_, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly, would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”
“Wall,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath,“that’s a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy,this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas,where he bought up a lot of ’balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know),and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and that one he’s trying to sell to-night,cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches.He wanted to, last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string,for all the airth like a string of inions.”
This account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable mystery, and showed that the landlord,after all, had had no idea of fooling me—but at the same time what could I think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a Saturday night clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal business as selling the heads of dead idolators?
“Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man.”
“He pays reg’lar,” was the rejoinder. “But come, it’s getting dreadful late,you had better be turning flukes—it’s a nice bed;Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced.There’s plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why,afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it.But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor,and came near breaking his arm. Arter that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here,I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards me,offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner,he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday—you won’t see that harpooneer to-night;he’s come to anchor somewhere—come along then; _do_ come; _won’t_ ye come?”
I considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs we went, and I was ushered into a small room,cold as a clam, and furnished, sure enough, with a prodigious bed,almost big enough indeed for any four harpooneers to sleep abreast.
“There,” said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table;“there, make yourself comfortable now, and good night to ye.” I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.
Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed. Though none of the most elegant,it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well. I then glanced round the room;and besides the bedstead and centre table, could see no other furniture belonging to the place,but a rude shelf, the four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a whale.Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a hammock lashed up,and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a large seaman’s bag,containing the harpooneer’s wardrobe, no doubt in lieu of a land trunk. Likewise,there was a parcel of outlandish bone fish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place,and a tall harpoon standing at the head of the bed.
But what is this on the chest?I took it up, and held it close to the light, and felt it, and smelt it,and tried every way possible to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it.I can compare it to nothing but a large door mat,ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an Indian moccasin.There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as you see the same in South American ponchos.But could it be possible that any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat,and parade the streets of any Christian town in that sort of guise?I put it on, to try it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy and thick,and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day.I went up in it to a bit of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life.I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink in the neck.
I sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this head-peddling harpooneer,and his door mat. After thinking some time on the bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket,and then stood in the middle of the room thinking. I then took off my coat,and thought a little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now,half undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about the harpooneer’s not coming home at all that night,it being so very late, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots,and then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself to the care of heaven.
Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn-cobs or broken crockery, there is no telling,but I rolled about a good deal, and could not sleep for a long time.At last I slid off into a light doze, and had pretty nearly made a good offing towards the land of Nod,when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage,and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.
Lord save me, thinks I, that must be the harpooneer, the infernal head-peddler.But I lay perfectly still, and resolved not to say a word till spoken to.Holding a light in one hand, and that identical New Zealand head in the other,the stranger entered the room, and without looking towards the bed,placed his candle a good way off from me on the floor in one corner,and then began working away at the knotted cords of the large bag I before spoke of as being in the room.I was all eagerness to see his face, but he kept it averted for some time while employed in unlacing the bag’s mouth.This accomplished, however, he turned round—when, good heavens!what a sight!Such a face!It was of a dark, purplish, yellow colour,here and there stuck over with large blackish looking squares. Yes, it’s just as I thought,he’s a terrible bedfellow; he’s been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here he is,just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his face so towards the light,that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks.They were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this;but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me.I remembered a story of a white man—a whaleman too—who, falling among the cannibals,had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages,must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all!It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then,what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about,and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure,it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning;but I never heard of a hot sun’s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However,I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin.Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning,this harpooneer never noticed me at all. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag,he commenced fumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk,and a seal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in the middle of the room,he then took the New Zealand head—a ghastly thing enough—and crammed it down into the bag.He now took off his hat—a new beaver hat—when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise.There was no hair on his head—none to speak of at least—nothing but a small scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead.His bald purplish head now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull.Had not the stranger stood between me and the door,I would have bolted out of it quicker than ever I bolted a dinner.
Even as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but it was the second floor back.I am no coward, but what to make of this head-peddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension.Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and confounded about the stranger,I confess I was now as much afraid of him as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at the dead of night.In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game enough just then to address him,and demand a satisfactory answer concerning what seemed inexplicable in him.
Meanwhile, he continued the business of undressing, and at last showed his chest and arms.As I live, these covered parts of him were checkered with the same squares as his face; his back,too, was all over the same dark squares; he seemed to have been in a Thirty Years’ War,and just escaped from it with a sticking-plaster shirt. Still more, his very legs were marked,as if a parcel of dark green frogs were running up the trunks of young palms.It was now quite plain that he must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman in the South Seas,and so landed in this Christian country. I quaked to think of it.A peddler of heads too—perhaps the heads of his own brothers. He might take a fancy to mine—heavens!look at that tomahawk!
But there was no time for shuddering, for now the savage went about something that completely fascinated my attention,and convinced me that he must indeed be a heathen. Going to his heavy grego, or wrapall,or dreadnaught, which he had previously hung on a chair, he fumbled in the pockets,and produced at length a curious little deformed image with a hunch on its back,and exactly the colour of a three days’ old Congo baby. Remembering the embalmed head,at first I almost thought that this black manikin was a real baby preserved in some similar manner.But seeing that it was not at all limber, and that it glistened a good deal like polished ebony,I concluded that it must be nothing but a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be.For now the savage goes up to the empty fire-place, and removing the papered fire-board,sets up this little hunch-backed image, like a tenpin, between the andirons.The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty,so that I thought this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.
I now screwed my eyes hard towards the half hidden image,feeling but ill at ease meantime—to see what was next to follow.First he takes about a double handful of shavings out of his grego pocket,and places them carefully before the idol;then laying a bit of ship biscuit on top and applying the flame from the lamp,he kindled the shavings into a sacrificial blaze. Presently,after many hasty snatches into the fire,and still hastier withdrawals of his fingers (whereby he seemed to be scorching them badly),he at last succeeded in drawing out the biscuit; then blowing off the heat and ashes a little,he made a polite offer of it to the little negro.But the little devil did not seem to fancy such dry sort of fare at all; he never moved his lips.All these strange antics were accompanied by still stranger guttural noises from the devotee,who seemed to be praying in a sing-song or else singing some pagan psalmody or other,during which his face twitched about in the most unnatural manner. At last extinguishing the fire,he took the idol up very unceremoniously,and bagged it again in his grego pocket as carelessly as if he were a sportsman bagging a dead woodcock.
All these queer proceedings increased my uncomfortableness,and seeing him now exhibiting strong symptoms of concluding his business operations,and jumping into bed with me, I thought it was high time, now or never,before the light was put out, to break the spell in which I had so long been bound.
But the interval I spent in deliberating what to say, was a fatal one.Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he examined the head of it for an instant,and then holding it to the light, with his mouth at the handle,he puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment the light was extinguished,and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I sang out,I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.
Stammering out something, I knew not what, I rolled away from him against the wall,and then conjured him, whoever or whatever he might be, to keep quiet,and let me get up and light the lamp again.But his guttural responses satisfied me at once that he but ill comprehended my meaning.
“Who-e debel you?”—he at last said—“you no speak-e, dam-me, I kill-e.” And so saying the lighted tomahawk began flourishing about me in the dark.
“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” shouted I. “Landlord!Watch!Coffin!Angels!save me!”
“Speak-e!tell-ee me who-ee be, or dam-me, I kill-e!” again growled the cannibal, while his horrid flourishings of the tomahawk scattered the hot tobacco ashes about me till I thought my linen would get on fire.But thank heaven, at that moment the landlord came into the room light in hand,and leaping from the bed I ran up to him.
“Don’t be afraid now,” said he, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.”
“Stop your grinning,” shouted I, “and why didn’t you tell me that that infernal harpooneer was a cannibal?”
“I thought ye know’d it;—didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads around town?—but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here—you sabbee me,I sabbee—you this man sleepe you—you sabbee?”
“Me sabbee plenty”—grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed.
“You gettee in,” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side.He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way.I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean,comely looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about,thought I to myself—the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me,as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.
“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it;tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him.But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”
This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied,and again politely motioned me to get into bed—rolling over to one side as much as to say—“I won’t touch a leg of ye. ”
“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”
I turned in, and never slept better in my life.
CHAPTER 4. The Counterpane.
Upon waking next morning about daylight,I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner.You had almost thought I had been his wife. The counterpane was of patchwork,full of odd little parti-coloured squares and triangles;and this arm of his tattooed all over with an interminable Cretan labyrinth of a figure,no two parts of which were of one precise shade—owing I suppose to his keeping his arm at sea unmethodically in sun and shade,his shirt sleeves irregularly rolled up at various times—this same arm of his, I say,looked for all the world like a strip of that same patchwork quilt. Indeed,partly lying on it as the arm did when I first awoke, I could hardly tell it from the quilt,they so blended their hues together; and it was only by the sense of weight and pressure that I could tell that Queequeg was hugging me.
My sensations were strange. Let me try to explain them. When I was a child,I well remember a somewhat similar circumstance that befell me;whether it was a reality or a dream, I never could entirely settle. The circumstance was this.I had been cutting up some caper or other—I think it was trying to crawl up the chimney,as I had seen a little sweep do a few days previous; and my stepmother who, somehow or other,was all the time whipping me, or sending me to bed supperless,—my mother dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me off to bed,though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon of the 21st June,the longest day in the year in our hemisphere. I felt dreadfully. But there was no help for it,so up stairs I went to my little room in the third floor,undressed myself as slowly as possible so as to kill time,and with a bitter sigh got between the sheets.
I lay there dismally calculating that sixteen entire hours must elapse before I could hope for a resurrection. Sixteen hours in bed!the small of my back ached to think of it. And it was so light too;the sun shining in at the window, and a great rattling of coaches in the streets,and the sound of gay voices all over the house. I felt worse and worse—at last I got up, dressed,and softly going down in my stockinged feet, sought out my stepmother,and suddenly threw myself at her feet, beseeching her as a particular favour to give me a good slippering for my misbehaviour;anything indeed but condemning me to lie abed such an unendurable length of time.But she was the best and most conscientious of stepmothers, and back I had to go to my room.For several hours I lay there broad awake, feeling a great deal worse than I have ever done since,even from the greatest subsequent misfortunes.At last I must have fallen into a troubled nightmare of a doze;and slowly waking from it—half steeped in dreams—I opened my eyes,and the before sun-lit room was now wrapped in outer darkness.Instantly I felt a shock running through all my frame; nothing was to be seen,and nothing was to be heard; but a supernatural hand seemed placed in mine.My arm hung over the counterpane, and the nameless, unimaginable, silent form or phantom,to which the hand belonged, seemed closely seated by my bed-side.For what seemed ages piled on ages, I lay there, frozen with the most awful fears,not daring to drag away my hand; yet ever thinking that if I could but stir it one single inch,the horrid spell would be broken. I knew not how this consciousness at last glided away from me;but waking in the morning, I shudderingly remembered it all,and for days and weeks and months afterwards I lost myself in confounding attempts to explain the mystery.Nay, to this very hour, I often puzzle myself with it.
Now, take away the awful fear, and my sensations at feeling the supernatural hand in mine were very similar,in their strangeness, to those which I experienced on waking up and seeing Queequeg’s pagan arm thrown round me.But at length all the past night’s events soberly recurred, one by one, in fixed reality,and then I lay only alive to the comical predicament.For though I tried to move his arm—unlock his bridegroom clasp—yet, sleeping as he was,he still hugged me tightly, as though naught but death should part us twain. I now strove to rouse him—“Queequeg!”—but his only answer was a snore. I then rolled over,my neck feeling as if it were in a horse-collar; and suddenly felt a slight scratch.Throwing aside the counterpane, there lay the tomahawk sleeping by the savage’s side,as if it were a hatchet-faced baby. A pretty pickle, truly, thought I;abed here in a strange house in the broad day, with a cannibal and a tomahawk!“Queequeg!—in the name of goodness, Queequeg, wake!” At length, by dint of much wriggling, and loud and incessant expostulations upon the unbecomingness of his hugging a fellow male in that matrimonial sort of style, I succeeded in extracting a grunt; and presently, he drew back his arm, shook himself all over like a Newfoundland dog just from the water, and sat up in bed, stiff as a pike-staff, looking at me, and rubbing his eyes as if he did not altogether remember how I came to be there, though a dim consciousness of knowing something about me seemed slowly dawning over him. Meanwhile, I lay quietly eyeing him, having no serious misgivings now, and bent upon narrowly observing so curious a creature. When, at last, his mind seemed made up touching the character of his bedfellow, and he became, as it were, reconciled to the fact; he jumped out upon the floor, and by certain signs and sounds gave me to understand that, if it pleased me, he would dress first and then leave me to dress afterwards, leaving the whole apartment to myself. Thinks I, Queequeg, under the circumstances, this is a very civilized overture; but, the truth is, these savages have an innate sense of delicacy, say what you will; it is marvellous how essentially polite they are. I pay this particular compliment to Queequeg, because he treated me with so much civility and consideration, while I was guilty of great rudeness; staring at him from the bed, and watching all his toilette motions; for the time my curiosity getting the better of my breeding. Nevertheless, a man like Queequeg you don’t see every day, he and his ways were well worth unusual regarding.
He commenced dressing at top by donning his beaver hat, a very tall one, by the by,and then—still minus his trowsers—he hunted up his boots. What under the heavens he did it for,I cannot tell, but his next movement was to crush himself—boots in hand, and hat on—under the bed;when, from sundry violent gaspings and strainings, I inferred he was hard at work booting himself;though by no law of propriety that I ever heard of,is any man required to be private when putting on his boots. But Queequeg, do you see,was a creature in the transition stage—neither caterpillar nor butterfly.He was just enough civilized to show off his outlandishness in the strangest possible manners.His education was not yet completed. He was an undergraduate.If he had not been a small degree civilized,he very probably would not have troubled himself with boots at all; but then,if he had not been still a savage, he never would have dreamt of getting under the bed to put them on.At last, he emerged with his hat very much dented and crushed down over his eyes,and began creaking and limping about the room, as if, not being much accustomed to boots,his pair of damp, wrinkled cowhide ones—probably not made to order either—rather pinched and tormented him at the first go off of a bitter cold morning.
Seeing, now, that there were no curtains to the window, and that the street being very narrow,the house opposite commanded a plain view into the room,and observing more and more the indecorous figure that Queequeg made,staving about with little else but his hat and boots on; I begged him as well as I could,to accelerate his toilet somewhat, and particularly to get into his pantaloons as soon as possible.He complied, and then proceeded to wash himself.At that time in the morning any Christian would have washed his face; but Queequeg,to my amazement, contented himself with restricting his ablutions to his chest, arms, and hands.He then donned his waistcoat, and taking up a piece of hard soap on the wash-stand centre table,dipped it into water and commenced lathering his face.I was watching to see where he kept his razor, when lo and behold,he takes the harpoon from the bed corner, slips out the long wooden stock, unsheathes the head,whets it a little on his boot, and striding up to the bit of mirror against the wall,begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning of his cheeks. Thinks I, Queequeg,this is using Rogers’s best cutlery with a vengeance.Afterwards I wondered the less at this operation when I came to know of what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made,and how exceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept.
The rest of his toilet was soon achieved, and he proudly marched out of the room,wrapped up in his great pilot monkey jacket, and sporting his harpoon like a marshal’s baton.
CHAPTER 5. Breakfast.
I quickly followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the grinning landlord very pleasantly.I cherished no malice towards him, though he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my bedfellow.
However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing;the more’s the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper person,afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be backward,but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and be spent in that way.And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about him,be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.