moby dick (readable classics)

8/9/2019 Moby Dick (Readable Classics)

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Moby Dick

Herman Melvilleand

Wayne Josephson

Readable Classics


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Moby ick

Herman Melville

and

Wayne Josephson

Readable lassicsCharlottesville VA 22901


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Readable lassicsReadable Classics gently edits great works of literature, retaining the originalauthors' voices, and making them less frustrating for students and moreenjoyable for modern readers.

Moby ickIn Moby Dick, Herman Melvilles 1851 masterpiece, Ishmael, a crewman aboardthe whaling ship Pequod, narrates Captain Ahabs obsessive, doomed quest todestroy the great white whale that took his leg.

A tremendously ambitious novel, Moby-Dick became the first great American

epic and myth, a tale of life at sea and the conflict between man and his fate.Brilliant, humorous, and bleak, Melville espouses his philosophy of life, death,religion, and moral values.

Copyright 2010 byReadable ClassicsAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproducedin any form without written permission from the publisher.ISBN: 978-0-615-32444-9Library ofCongress Control Number: 2009937410Readable ClassicsCharlottesville, VA 22901

www.ReadableClassics.com


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Chapter 1Loomings

Call me Ishmael.Some years ago, having no money in my purse and nothing to interest me

on the shore, I thought I would sail around a little and see the watery part ofthe world.

It is my way of driving off the gloom. Whenever it is a damp, drizzlyNovember in my soul, or when I find myself following every funeral I see, andespecially when I feel like stepping into the street and knocking peoples hatsoff, then I know it is high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

Instead of putting a pistol to my head, I quietly take to the ship. There isnothing surprising in this. If men would only admit it, they would have nearly

the same feelings toward the ocean asI

.There is the city of Manhattan, surrounded by water. Its extreme downtownis the Battery, washed by waves and cooled by breezes. Look at the crowds ofwater-gazers there.

Walk around the city on a dreamySunday afternoon. What do you see?Posted like silent sentinels, all around the town, stand thousands of men fixed indreams about the ocean. They are leaning against the posts, seated on the piers,standing on the decks of ships from China, some high aloft in the rigging, as iftrying to get a better peep of the sea.

But these are all landsmen--weekdays pent up in plaster rooms, tied tocounters, nailed to benches, fastened to desks. Why is this? Are the green fieldsgone? What are they doing here?

But look! Here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water. Strange!Nothing will content them but to get just as near the water as they possibly canwithout falling in. Here they all unite. Tell me, do the magnetic needles of thecompasses of all those ships attract them there?

Say you are in the country, in a land of lakes. Take almost any path you

please, and ten to one it carries you down to a stream. There is magic in it. Takethe most absent-minded man, stand him up, set his feet going, and he will


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infallibly lead you to water, if there is water nearby. Should you ever be thirsty inthe great American desert, try meditating, for everyone knows that meditationand water are wedded forever.

Here is an artist. He desires to paint the dreamiest, most enchantingromantic landscape in all of New Hampshire. What is the chief element he

employs? There stand his trees, his meadow, his cattle, his cottage, hismountains--yet all are in vain, unless his eyes are fixed on a stream.

Go visit the Prairies in June, when for mile after mile you wade knee-deepthrough Tiger lilies--what is the one charm lacking? Water. There is not a dropof water there!

Were Niagara a waterfall of sand, would you travel a thousand miles to seeit? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfulsof silver, deliberate whether to buy a coat, which he sadly needed, or take a road

trip toR

ockaway Beach on LongI

sland?Why is almost every robust, healthy boy, with a robust, healthy soul, crazy togo to sea? Why, upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you feel a mysticalvibration when told that your ship was now out of sight of land? Why did theold Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate god?

Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper is the meaning ofthat story of Narcissus, who saw his image in the fountain, plunged into it, and was drowned. But we see that same image in all rivers and oceans--it is theperplexing ghost of life, and this is the key to it all.

Now when I go to sea, it is never as a passenger. To go as a passenger, youneed a purse, and a purse is just a rag unless you have money in it. Besides,passengers get seasick, grow quarrelsome, dont sleep at night or enjoythemselves much.

Nor do I go as a Commodore, a Captain, or a Cook. I give the glory of suchoffices to those who like them. I hate all honorable, respectable work. It is all Ican do to take care of myself, without taking care of a whole ship. As forcooking, somehow I never fancied broiling fowls--though once broiled and

buttered, no one will speak more respectfully of a fowl than I will.When I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor. True, they order me about and

make me jump from mast to mast like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And atfirst, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches ones sense of honor,particularly if you come from an old established family.

And most of all, if you go from being a schoolmaster, where the tallestboys stand in awe of you, to putting your hand into a tar-pot. The transitionfrom schoolmaster to sailor is a drastic one, I assure you. But even this wears

off in time.What of it, if some old hunk of a sea captain orders me to get a broom and


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sweep down the decks? After all, who aint a slave? Tell me that. So, however theold captains thump and punch me, its all right--everybody is served one way oranother in much the same way, so the universal thump is passed round, and allhands should rub each others shoulders and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they pay me for my trouble--

passengers are never paid a single penny. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is the mostuncomfortable burden one can bear. But being paid--what can compare with it?The act of a man receiving money is really marvelous, considering it is the rootof all evil, and there is no way a rich man can enter heaven. Ah! How cheerfullywe deliver ourselves to hell!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor because of the wholesome exercise andpure air. The Captain at the wheel of the ship gets his atmosphere secondhand

from the sailors on the bow deck. He thinks he breathes it first, but not so.I

nmuch the same way, the common people lead their leaders.But why did I, after many voyages as a merchant sailor, decide to go on a

whaling voyage? This, the invisible hand of Fate can better answer than I.Certainly this was part of Gods grand plan. I am sure that my whaling voyage was a brief intermission between Gods more important performances--something like this:

Grand Election for President of the United States.Whaling Voyage by one Ishmael.

Bloody Battle in Afghanistan.I do not know why the stage managers--the Fates--put me down for this

shabby whaling voyage, when others were destined for magnificent roles in greatevents.

But nowI thinkI can understand it, besides the delusion that it was my ownfree will and astute judgment--it was the overwhelming idea of the great whalehimself.

Such a pompous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity, along

with the wild and distant seas where he rolled his bulk, and the nameless perilsof the whale. Other men, perhaps, would not have been tempted. But I amtormented by an everlasting itch to sail forbidden seas and land on barbarouscoasts.

One other thing. Not knowing where our ship shall end up on its longvoyage, I know it is always wise to always be on friendly terms with all theinmates of the vessel.

The whaling voyage, then, was welcome. The great floodgates of wonder

swung open and, in my wild imaginings, the whales floated into my inmost soul,like a white island in the ocean.


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Chapter 2The Carpet-Bag

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag--a suitcase made from an oldrug--tucked it under my arm and, leaving Manhattan, I duly arrived in New

Bedford, Massachusetts, on my way to Cape Horn and the Pacific. It was aSaturday night in December. I was disappointed upon learning that the boat forNantucket had already sailed, and no more boats would sail till Monday.

Most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling first stop atNew Bedford, and then embark on their voyage. But my mind was made up tosail on none other than a Nantucket ship, because there was something fine andenergetic about that famous old island which pleased me.

Besides, though New Bedford has gradually been monopolizing the

business of whaling, Nantucket was the great original--the place where the firstdead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did thoseaboriginal Indians first paddle out in canoes to chase the Leviathan? And wherethat first adventurous little boat threw cobblestones at the whales, till they werenear enough to risk a harpoon?

Now with the weekend in New Bedford before I could leave, I wasconcerned where I was to eat and sleep. It was a very dark and dismal night,bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place.

With anxious fingers, I had found only a few pieces of silver in my pocket.So wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, be sure to inquire the price, anddont be too particular.

I paced the streets and passed the sign of The Crossed Harpoons, but itlooked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright windows ofthe Sword-Fish Inn, there came such glowing rays, that it seemed to havemelted the ten inches of packed snow and ice in front. Too expensive and jolly,again thought I.

But go on, Ishmael. So, on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets

that took me toward the water, for there were certainly the cheapest, if not thecheeriest inns.


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Such dreary streets! But presently I saw a smoky light coming from a low,wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It was the sign of TheTrap. Hearing a loud voice within, I opened a second, interior door. A hundredblack faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel ofDoom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a black church, and the preachers

text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing andteeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out.

Moving on, I came at last to a dim light near the docks, and heard a forlorncreaking sign painted with a white whale and a jet of misty spray, and the words:The Spouter Inn--Peter Coffin.

Coffin? Spouter? Rather ominous connection, thought I. But Coffin is acommon name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is fromthere. The light looked so dim that the place looked quiet enough. The

dilapidated little wooden house looked as if it had been carted here from someburnt down ruins, and the sign had a poverty-stricken creak to it. I thought thathere was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best coffee made fromroasted green peas.

It was a queer sort of place--one side leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp,bleak corner, where the howling wind blew. What a pity they didnt stop up thechinks and crannies to keep the wind out. But its too late to make anyimprovements now. The universe is finished.

But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is

plenty of blubber yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, andsee what sort of place this Spouter may be.


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Chapter 3The Spouter-Inn

The entry of the Spouter-Inn resembled some condemned old ship. On oneside hung a very large oil painting, covered with smoke--it was a Cape Horn

ship in a hurricane, and an exasperated whale, in mid-air, was about to impalehimself upon the three masts of the ship.

On the opposite wall hung an array of monstrous clubs and spears. Somehad glittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots ofhuman hair. You shuddered as you wondered what monstrous cannibal andsavage could ever have used these hacking, horrifying implements.

Mixed with these were rusty old whaling harpoons, all broken anddeformed. Some were famous. Fifty years ago, a Nathan S wain killed fifteen

whales between sunrise and sunset with one long lance. And another harpoon, which looked like a corkscrew now, had been flung into the tail of a whale.Years later, when it was slain, the harpoon had traveled forty feet through itsbody and was found imbedded in the hump.

Crossing this dusky entry, you enter a still-duskier public room. On one sidestood a long table covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty raritiesgathered from the remote nooks of the wide world.

On the other side of the room stands a dark-looking bar--a rude attempt ata whales head. There stands the vast arched bone of the whales jaw, so wide a

coach could drive under it. In the bar are shabby shelves with old decanters,bottles, and flasks. And in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursedJonah, bustles a little, withered old bartender, also named Jonah, who sells thesailors deliriums and death.

The glasses into which he pours his poison are cylinders on the outside, butinside the green glasses taper deceitfully down to a cheating bottom. Fill to thismark, your charge is a penny; to the next mark, a penny more; and so on to thefull glass--the Cape Horn measure--which you may gulp down for a shilling.

Upon entering the place, I found a number of young seamen gatheredabout a table. I sought the landlord, and telling him I desired a room, was told


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that his house was full.But, he added, tapping his forehead, you have no objection to sharing a

harpooneers blanket, have you? I suppose you are going a-whaling, so youdbetter get used to that sort of thing.

I told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed and, if I ever did, it would

depend upon who the harpooneer might be and, if he was not decidedlyobjectionable, I would put up with half of any decent mans blanket.

I thought so. All right, take a seat. Supper? You want supper? Itll be readydirectly.

I sat down on an old wooden bench, carved all over. At one end, an oldsailor was still carving it with his jackknife, trying to create a ship under full sail,but he didnt make much headway, I thought.

At last, some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in the next

room.I

t was cold asI

celand--no fire at all--the landlord said he couldnt affordit. Nothing but two dismal candles. We were happy to button up our jackets anddrink our cups of scalding tea with our half-frozen fingers.

But the meal was most substantial--not only meat and potatoes, butdumplings. Good heavens! Dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a greencoat yelled at these dumplings in a most threatening manner. The landlord,being offended, said, My boy, youll have a nightmare--a dead certainty.

Landlord, I whispered, that aint the harpooneer, is it?Oh, no, said he, looking diabolically funny, the harpooneer is a dark-

skinned chap. He never eats dumplings--he eats nothing but steaks, and he likesem rare.

The devil he does, says I. Where is he?Hell be here before long, was the answer.I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this dark-skinned

harpooneer. I made up my mind that if we should sleep together, he must getinto bed before I did.

Supper over, the company went back to the bar room and, not knowing

what else to do with myself, I decided to spend the rest of the evening as anonlooker.

Soon, loud noises were heard outside. The landlord cried, Thats the crewof the Grampus. I saw her coming in this morning; a three years voyage, and aship full of whale oil. Hurrah, boys, now well have the latest news from the FigiIslands.

A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung open,and in rolled a wild set of mariners. Enveloped in their shaggy coats, with their

heads muffled in woolen scarves, and their beards stiff with icicles, they seemedlike an eruption of bears from Labrador.


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They had just gotten off their boat, and this was the first house theyentered. No wonder, then, that they made a straight line for the bar, where thewrinkled little old Jonah poured them drinks all round. One complained of abad cold in his head, upon which Jonah mixed him a thick potion of gin andmolasses, which he swore was a cure for all colds.

The liquor soon mounted into their heads and they began jumping aboutmost noisily. I observed, however, that one of them held back, somewhat aloof.This man interested me at once; and since the sea gods had ordained that heshould soon become my shipmate, I will venture a little description of him.

He stood full six feet in height, with noble shoulders, and brawn I haveseldom seen in a man. His face was deeply brown and burnt, making his whiteteeth dazzling by contrast. In the deep shadows of his eyes floated badmemories. His voice announced that he was a Southerner, perhaps from

Virginia.He soon slipped away unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he becamemy comrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was missed by hisshipmates, and they raised a cry of, Bulkington! Bulkington! WheresBulkington? and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.

It was now about nine oclock and the room was now quiet. I began tocongratulate myself upon a little plan that had occurred to me. No man prefersto sleep two in a bed. People like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a

strange town, and that stranger is a harpooneer, then your objections multiply.Nor was there any earthly reason why I should sleep two in a bed, for

sailors do not sleep two in a bed at sea. To be sure, they all sleep together in oneapartment, but you have your own hammock, and cover yourself with your ownblanket, and sleep in your own skin.

The more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I hated the thoughtof sleeping with him. It was fair to presume that being a harpooneer, his clotheswould not be the tidiest. I began to twitch all over. Besides, it was getting late--

suppose he should tumble in upon me at midnight?Landlord! Ive changed my mind about that harpooneer. I wont sleep with

him. Ill try the bench here.Just as you please; but its a rough board here, he said, feeling the knots.

He took a carpenters plane and began planing away at my bed, while grinninglike an ape. The shavings flew right and left, and I told him for heavens sake toquit--the bed was soft enough to suit me.

I now measured the bench and found it was a foot too short. I added a

chair, but it was a foot too narrow.I

placed the bench a few inches away fromthe wall for my back to settle down in. But there was such a draft of cold air


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from the window, that this would never do. The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop--couldnt I bolt the

bedroom door from the inside, and jump into his bed, not to be wakened by themost violent knockings? But on second thought, I dismissed it. Who could tellbut what the next morning, as soon as I popped out of the room, the

harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!I began to think that I might be having unnecessary prejudices against this

unknown harpooneer. Ill wait awhile, thinks I; he must be dropping in beforelong. Ill have a good look at him then, and perhaps we may become jolly goodbedfellows after all--theres no telling.

But though the other boarders kept coming in and going to bed, yet no signof my harpooneer.

Landlord! said I, what sort of a chap is he--does he always keep such late

hours?I

t was now hard upon midnight. The landlord chuckled. No, he answered, generally hes an early bird--early to bed and early to rise--yea, hes the bird what catches the worm. Buttonight he went out peddlin, and I dont know what keeps him so late, unless hecant sell his head.

Cant sell his head? What sort of a bamboozling story is this? I asked,getting into a towering rage.

Thats right, he said, and I told him he couldnt sell it here--the marketsoverstocked.

With what? shouted I.With heads, to be sure. Aint there too many heads in the world?Landlord, said I, I demand you tell me whether I shall be safe to spend

the night with this harpooneer. If this man is stark mad, Ive no intention ofsleeping with a madman.

Be easy, said the landlord, he just arrived from the South Seas, where hebought up a lot of embalmed New Zealand heads--great curios, you know--andhes sold all of them but one.

This account cleared up the mystery, but what could I think of aharpooneer who stayed out on a Saturday night, clean into the holySabbath,engaged in such a cannibal business as selling the heads of dead idolworshippers?

Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man.He pays regular, was the rejoinder. But come, its a nice bed. Ill give you

a glimpse.He lighted a candle, and then looked at the clock in the corner and said,

Its

Sunday now. You wont see that harpooneer tonight; hell sleep somewhereelse.


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Up the stairs we went, and I was ushered into a small room, cold as a clam,with an enormous bed, almost big enough for four harpooneers.

There, said the landlord, placing the candle on an old sea chest that diddouble duty as a washstand. Make yourself comfortable now, and good nightto you. Then he disappeared.

Folding back the counterpane--also called a bedspread--I saw that the bed,while not the most elegant, was tolerably good. I glanced round the room and,besides the bed and table, could see no other furniture but a shelf, the fourwalls, and a cardboard cover over the fireplace, depicting a man striking a whale.

On the floor was a tied-up hammock and a large seamans bag, no doubtcontaining the harpooneers wardrobe. On the shelf was a parcel of fish hooks.A tall harpoon leaned against the head of the bed.

But what was this on the chest? I picked it up, felt it, smelt it, and tried every

way possible to decide what it was.I

t appeared to be a large doormat, decoratedon the edges with what resembled porcupine quills. There was a slit in themiddle of this mat.

But how could any sober harpooneer get into a doormat and parade thestreets of anyChristian town? I tried it on, and it weighed me down, being quiteshaggy and thick, and it felt a little damp. I looked at myself in a small mirroron the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life. I tore it off in such a hurrythat I gave myself a kink in the neck.

I sat down on the side of the bed and began thinking about this head-

peddling harpooneer and his doormat. Then I got up and took off my jacketand stood in the middle of the room, thinking. I then took off my coat, andthought a little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now,half-undressed as I was, and since the landlord said the harpooneer would notcome home that night, I jumped out of my pantaloons and boots, blew out thelamp light, and tumbled into bed.

Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn cobs or broken plates, there isno telling, but I rolled around and could not sleep for a long time. At last I slid

off into a light doze, and was pretty near the land of Nod, when I heard heavyfootsteps in the hallway, and saw a glimmer of light under the door.

Lord save me, I thought. That must be the harpooneer, the infernal head-peddler. But I lay perfectly still and decided not to say a word till spoken to.

The stranger entered the room, holding a candle in one hand, and that NewZealand head in the other. Without looking toward the bed, he placed his candleon the floor in one corner, and then began untying the knotted cord of hisseamans bag.

Iwas all eagerness to see his face. Then, he turned round, and--goodheavens! What a sight! Such a face! It was a dark purplish-yellow color, with


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large black squares here and there. Yes, its just as I thought, hes been in a fight,got dreadfully cut, and here he is, just back from the surgeon.

But as he turned his face toward the light, I saw that the black squares onhis cheeks were not bandages, but tattoos. Then I remembered a story of a whaleman who fell among the cannibals and had been tattooed by them. I

concluded that this harpooneer must have met with a similar adventure.And I thought, so what, after all! Its only his outside--a man can be honest

in any sort of skin. But then, what about his unearthly complexion? It might benothing but a tropical tan--but I never heard of the hot sun tanning a whiteman 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.

After the harpooneer opened his bag, he pulled out a tomahawk and asealskin wallet with the hair still on it. Placing these on top of the old chest, he

crammed his New Zealand head into his bag. He now took off his new beaverhat, when I nearly screamed with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head--nothing but a small scalp knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplishhead now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had the stranger notstood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of the room quickerthan I ever swallowed a dinner.

I thought of slipping out the window, but it was on the second floor. I amno coward, but I could not comprehend what to make of this head-peddlingpurple rascal. Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely confused

about the stranger, I confess I was as much afraid of him as if he was the devilhimself.

Meanwhile, he continued undressing, and at last showed his chest and arms.As I live, they were checkered with the same tattooed squares as his face--andhis back, too. Then I saw that his legs were also marked.

It was now quite plain that he must be some abominable savage that landedin 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 he did something that

completely convinced me he was a heathen. Going to his heavy overcoat, whichhe had hung on a chair, he fumbled in the pockets and produced a curious littledeformed image with a hunch on its back, exactly the color of a three days oldCongo baby.

Remembering the embalmed head, at first I almost thought that this was areal baby, preserved in a similar manner. But seeing that it glistened like polished

ebony,I

concluded that it must be a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be.Now the savage goes up to the empty fireplace and, removing the cover,


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sets up this little hunchbacked image, like a bowling tenpin, between theandirons. The chimney was very sooty, so I thought this fireplace made a veryappropriate little shrine for his Congo idol.

Next he takes a double handful of wood shavings from his coat pocket andplaces them carefully before the idol. Then laying a little biscuit on top, he

brought the lamp over and ignited the shavings into a sacrificial blaze. Aftermany attempts to snatch the biscuit from the fire, and badly scorching hisfingers, at last he succeeded in grabbing the biscuit. Then, blowing off the heatand ashes a little, he made a polite offer of it to the little idol.

But the little wooden devil did not seem to want it--he never moved his lips.All the while, the stranger let out guttural noises, singing some pagan psalm orother, during which his face twitched about in the most unnatural manner. Atlast, extinguishing the fire, he grabbed the idol and carelessly bagged it in his

coat pocket. All these queer proceedings increased my discomfort. Picking up histomahawk from the table, he held it to the lamp. With his mouth at the handle,he ignited it, puffing out great clouds of tobacco smoke. Then he extinguishedthe lamp.

The next moment this wild cannibal--tomahawk between his teeth--spranginto bed with me. I sang out--I could not help it now. With a sudden grunt ofsurprise, he began feeling me. He stammered somethingI could not understand,and then I rolled against the wall and begged him to keep quiet, and let me get

up and light the lamp again. But his guttural responses told me that he did notunderstand what I meant.

Whoee devil you? he said at last. You no speakee, dammee, or I killee.And so saying, the lighted tomahawk began waving around me in the dark.

Landlord, for Gods sake, Peter Coffin! shouted I. Landlord! Police!Coffin! Angels! Save me!

Speakee! Tell me whoee be, or dammee, I killee! again growled thecannibal, while his horrid waving of the tomahawk scattered hot tobacco ashes

about me till I thought my sheet would set on fire. But thank heaven, at thatmoment the landlord came into the room, light in hand. I leapt from the bedand ran up to him.

Dont be afraid now, said Coffin, grinning again, Queequeg herewouldnt harm a hair of your head.

Stop your grinning, shouted I, and why didnt you tell me that thisinfernal harpooneer was a cannibal?

I thought you knew it. Didnt I say he was peddlin heads around town?

But lie down and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here--you sabbee me,I

sabbeeyou--this man sleepee with you--you sabbee?


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Me sabbee plenty, grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sittingup in bed.

You gettee in, Queequeg added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, andthrowing the clothes to one side. He really did this in a kind and charitable way.I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattoos, he was on the whole a

clean, good-looking cannibal.Whats all this fuss I have been making, thought I to myself? The mans a

human being just as I am. He has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to beafraid of him. Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

Landlord, said I, tell him to stash his tomahawk or pipe, or whatever youcall it, here. Tell him to stop smoking, and I will turn in with him. I dont fancyhaving a man smoking in bed with me. Its dangerous. Besides, I aint insured.

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely

motioned to me to get into bed, rolling over to one side, as much as to say, I

wont touch a leg of ye.Good night, landlord, said I. You may go.I turned in, and never slept better in my life.


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Chapter 4The Counterpane

Upon waking the next morning about daylight, I found Queequegs armthrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost

thought I was his wife. The counterpane was a patchwork quilt, full of odd littlemulticolored squares and triangles. And this arm of his, tattooed all over, lookedlike a strip of that same quilt. It was only by the weight and pressure of his armthat I could tell Queequeg was hugging me.

It was a strange feeling. Let me try to explain. When I was a child, Iremember something similar that happened to me. I had pulled a prank--tryingto crawl up the chimney, as I had seen the little chimney sweep do a few daysprevious--and my stepmother, who was always whipping me or sending me to

bed supperless, dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me offto bed, though it was only two oclock in the afternoon.Upstairs I went, to my little room on the third floor, undressed myself as

slowly as possible so as to kill time, and with a bitter sigh got between thesheets.

I lay there dismally calculating that I must lie there for sixteen entire hoursin bed! The small of my back ached to think of it. And it was bright daylight,too. I felt worse and worse. At last I got up, dressed, softly went downstairs inmy stocking feet, sought out my stepmother, and suddenly threw myself at her

feet, begging her as a particular favor to give me a good spanking--anything butcondemning me to lie in bed for such an unbearable length of time. But she wasthe most thorough of stepmothers, and backI had to go to my room.

For several hours I lay there wide awake. At last, I must have fallen into atroubled nightmare of a sleep. Slowly waking from it, half-dreaming, I openedmy eyes, and the room was now wrapped in darkness.

InstantlyI felt a shock running through my body--my arm was lying on thecounterpane, and a supernatural hand seemed to be placed on top of my arm. I

could not see or hear anything--the nameless, silent phantom, to which the handbelonged, seemed to be seated close by my bedside.


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For what seemed like ages, I lay there, frozen with the most awful fears, notdaring to drag away my hand; yet thinking that if I could move it just one singleinch, the horrid spell would be broken.

I did not know how this feeling at last slid away from me, but waking in themorning, I remembered it all and shuddered. For days and weeks and months

afterward, I puzzled over this mystery. Nay, to this very hour, I often puzzlemyself with it.

Now, on waking up and seeing Queequegs pagan hand thrown round me,my sensations were very similar to that childhood memory. But finally the pastnights events slowly came back to me, and then I lay there in this comicpredicament.

Although I tried to move his arm--unlock his bridegrooms clasp. Butsleeping as he was, he still hugged me tightly, as though nothing but death

should do us part.I

now tried to rouse him--Queequeg!--but his only answerwas a snore.I then rolled over, and my neck suddenly felt a slight scratch. Throwing

aside the counterpane, there lay the tomahawk by the savages side. Truly apretty pickle, thought I--here in bed in a strange house in the broad daylightwith a cannibal and a tomahawk!

Queequeg! In the name of goodness, Queequeg, wake! At length, bymuch wriggling and loud disapproval about the unattractiveness of his hugginga fellow male in that matrimonial style, I succeeded in producing a grunt.

Presently, he removed his arm, shook himself all over like a Newfoundlanddog just out of the water, and sat up stiff in bed, looking at me and rubbing hiseyes as if he did not quite remember howI came to be there, though a dimdawning slowly came over him.

He then jumped onto the floor, and by certain signs and sounds let meknow that, if it pleased me, he would dress first and then leave me to dressafterwards, leaving the room to myself. Thinks I, this is a very civilized gesture.But the truth is, these savages have an innate sense of delicacy, say what you

will. It is marvelous how truly polite they are.I pay this compliment to Queequeg because he treated me with so much

thoughtfulness, while I was guilty of great rudeness--staring at him from thebed and watching him dress. But you dont see a man like Queequeg every day,and so he was well worth my curiosity.

He began by donning his beaver hat, and then, minus his trousers, he pickedup his boots and crawled under the bed to put them on, with much gasping andstraining. I never heard of a man needing privacy when putting on his boots.

But Queequeg, you see, was a creature in the transition stage--neither caterpillarnor butterfly. If he had not been at all civilized, he probably would not wear


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boots at all.At last, he emerged. Seeing that there were no curtains in the window, and

that the street offered a commanding view of Queequeq in nothing but his hatand boots, I begged him, as well as I could, to get into his pantaloons as soon aspossible. He complied, and then proceeded to wash himself.

At that time in the morning, anyChristian would have washed his face. ButQueequeg, to my amazement, cleaned only his chest, arms, and hands. He thendonned his vest and lathered his face with the soap. He then takes the harpoonfrom the corner, removed the sheath from the head and, striding up to the bitof mirror against the wall, begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning ofhis cheeks. Later I learned what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made of, andhow exceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept.

He was soon finished, and he proudly marched out of the room, wrapped

in his large jacket, sporting his harpoon like a marshals baton.


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Chapter 5Breakfast

I quickly followed Queequeg out of the room and, descending into the bar-room, met the grinning landlord very pleasantly. I had no malice toward him,

though he had quite a lot of fun with me regarding my bedfellow. However, agood laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce. So if a man can be agood joke for somebody, let him be used that way.

The bar-room was now full of boarders from the previous night. They werenearly all whalemen--chief mates, second and third mates, sea carpenters andbarrel makers, sea blacksmiths, harpooneers and ship keepers--a brown andbrawny group with dense beards, a shaggy set all wearing sailors jackets.

You could tell how long each one had been ashore. This fellows healthy

cheeks are like sunburned pears, and cannot have landed more than three daysago. That man next to him looks a few shades lighter. A third one, with a lightlybleached tropic tan, has been several weeks ashore. But Queequeg? His varioustints showed many climates, zone by zone.

Grub, ho! now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went tobreakfast.

They say that men who have seen the world become quite at ease in thecompany of others. Not always, though--a traveler who crosses Siberia by dogsled or walks alone through the heart of Africa may not attain high social

polish. Still, for the most part, one may find good company anywhere thatseamen gather.

I mention this because, after we were all seated at the table, I was preparingto hear some good stories about whaling. But to my surprise, nearly every manwas dead silent. Not only that, but they looked embarrassed. Yes, here were a setof seadogs, many of whom, without the slightest bashfulness, had boardedgreat whales on the high seas, entire strangers to the leviathans, and foughtthem dead without blinking.

Yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table, all of the same calling, all ofkindred tastes, looking round sheepishly at each other. A curious sight, these


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timid warrior whalemen!But as for Queequeg, he sat there among them, at the head of the table, as

cool as an icicle. Certainly, I cannot say much for his breeding. He brought hisharpoon into breakfast with him and, reaching over the table to the jeopardy ofmany heads, grabbed the rare beefsteaks with it. But it was certainly very coolly

done, and everyone knows that to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.Queequeg avoided the coffee and hot rolls and gave his undivided attention

to the rare beefsteaks. When breakfast was over, he went into the public roomwith everyone else, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and sat there quietly digestingand smoking with his beaver hat on, while I set out for a stroll.


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Chapter 6The Street

If I had been astonished at seeing such an outlandish man as Queequegamong the polite society of a civilized town, that astonishment soon left me

after taking my first daylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.Any large seaport will offer the queerest looking people from foreign lands.

Even on Broadway, Mediterranean mariners will sometimes bump into thefrightened ladies; and in Bombay, live American Yankees have often scared thenatives. But New Bedford beats them all. Here, actual cannibals stand chattingat street corners. It causes a stranger to stare.

But there are more curious, certainly more comical, sights in New Bedford.Every week in this town, scores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men

arrive--mostly young and strong, fellows who have felled forests, and now seekto drop the axe and snatch the whale harpoon. Many are as green as the GreenMountains where they came from.

Back home, a country bumpkin dandy will mow his two acres in Augustwith gloves on, for fear of tanning his hands. Now, when he decides to join thegreat whale fishery, you should see the comical things he does upon reachingthe seaport. In designing his sea outfit, he orders bell buttons for his vest, andsuspenders for his canvas trousers. Ah, poor hay-seed! How bitterly will thosestraps burst in the first howling gale.

But do not think that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals,and bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. Still, New Bedford is a queerplace. Had it not been for us whalemen, it would today resemble the desolatecoast of Labrador.

In all of New England, this town is perhaps the most expensive place tolive. It is a land of oil, true enough--whale oil. Nowhere in all America will youfind more patrician-like houses, and parks and gardens more opulent, than inNew Bedford. Where did they came from?

Gaze upon the lofty mansions iron gates, which resemble harpoons, andyour question will be answered. These large houses and flower gardens all came


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from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans--harpooned and dragged up herefrom the bottom of the sea.

They say that in New Bedford, fathers give whales to their daughters asdowries, and give their nieces a few porpoises each. You must go to NewBedford to see a brilliant wedding, where whale oil candles burn all night. The

town has long avenues of green and gold maples in summer, and beautifulchestnut trees in August, with bright flowers blooming from the barren rocks.

The women of New Bedford bloom like their own red roses--but roses onlybloom in summer, whereas these ladies cheeks bloom all year long. You cannotmatch this anywhere, except in Salem, where their sailor sweethearts can inhaletheir aroma from miles offshore.


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Chapter 7The Chapel

In New Bedford stands a Whalemans Chapel; very few fishermen who aresoon to leave for the Indian Ocean or Pacific fail to make a Sunday visit to this

spot.Returning from my morning stroll, I came to this special place. The sky had

changed from clear, sunny, and cold to driving sleet and mist. Wrapping myselfin my shaggy woolen jacket, I fought my way against the stubborn storm.

Entering, I found a small scattered group of sailors, wives and widows. Amuffled silence was only broken at times by the shrieks of the storm. Eachsilent worshipper sat apart from the other, as if each grief could not be shared.

The chaplain had not yet arrived. These silent islands of men and women

eyed several marble tablets, with black borders, set into the wall on either sideof the pulpit. Three of these tablets read something like the following:Sacred to the Memory of John Talbot, Who, at the age of eighteen, was

lost overboard near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, November 1st, 1836.This Tablet is erected to his Memory by his Sister.

Sacred to the Memory of Robert Long, Willis Ellery, Nathan Coleman,Walter Canny, Seth Macy, and Samuel Gleig, Forming one of the boats crewsof the Ship Eliza, Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, offshore from Peruin the Pacific, December 31st, 1839. This Marble is here placed by their

survivingShipmates.Sacred to the Memory of the late Captain Ezekiel Hardy, Who in the bow

of his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, August 3d,1833. This Tablet is erected to his Memory by his Widow.

Shaking off the ice from my hat and jacket, I sat near the door. Turningsideways, I was surprised to see Queequeg near me. He had a wondering gazeof curiosity on his face. This savage was the only person who noticed me,because he was the only one who could not read, and therefore was not gazing

at those frigid inscriptions on the wall.I knew not whether any of those present were relatives of the seamen


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commemorated on the wall. But several women wore the faces and mourningclothes of unceasing grief and unhealing hearts, so I felt sure that those bleaktablets were causing their old wounds to bleed afresh.

Oh! You, whose dead are buried in the ground do not know our despair!Our loved ones names are carved into marble gravestones with black borders--

but the graves are empty, without any ashes! They perished in nameless places inthe ocean and there is nothing to be resurrected to heaven!

Why is it that a universal proverb says the dead tell no tales--though theyhave more secrets than the treacherous ship graveyards off the coast ofEngland? Why do the Life Insurance Companies make Death payments? Whydo we refuse to be happy about those whom we claim are living in heavenlybliss? Why do all the living strive to hush all the dead? Why does the rumor of anoise in a tomb terrify a whole city? All these things are not without their

meanings.On the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I scarcely need to describe my feelingsregarding those marble tablets, as I read the fate of the whalemen who hadgone before me.

Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be yours.But somehow I grew merry again. Wonderful incentives to board ship, a

fine chance for promotion--aye, a crashed boat will give me a promotion toheaven. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling--a quick chaotic shove ofa man into Eternity. But what then?

I think we have badly mistaken this matter of Life and Death. I think thatwhat they call my shadow here on earth is really my true substance. I think mybody is just the dregs of my soul. In fact, I say, Take my body, it is not me. And therefore, three cheers for Nantucket--go ahead and crash my boat andcrash my body, for God cannot crash my soul.

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