It is noon; and Dough-Boy, the steward, thrusting his pale
loaf-of-bread face from the cabin-scuttle, announces dinner to his lord
and master who, sitting in the lee quarter-boat, has just been taking an
observation of the sun; and is now mutely reckoning the latitude on the
smooth, medallion-shaped tablet, reserved for that daily purpose on the
upper part of his ivory leg. From his complete inattention to the
tidings, you would think that moody Ahab had not heard his menial. But
presently, catching hold of the mizen shrouds, he swings himself to the
deck, and in an even, unexhilarated voice, saying, "Dinner, Mr.
Starbuck," disappears into the cabin.
When the last echo of his
sultan's step has died away, and Starbuck, the first Emir, has every
reason to suppose that he is seated, then Starbuck rouses from his
quietude, takes a few turns along the planks, and, after a grave peep
into the binnacle, says, with some touch of pleasantness, "Dinner, Mr.
Stubb," and descends the scuttle. The second Emir lounges about the
rigging awhile, and then slightly shaking the main brace, to see whether
it will be all right with that important rope, he likewise takes up the
old burden, and with a rapid "Dinner, Mr. Flask," follows after his
predecessors.
But the third Emir, now seeing himself all alone on
the quarter-deck, seems to feel relieved from some curious restraint;
for, tipping all sorts of knowing winks in all sorts of directions, and
kicking off his shoes, he strikes into a sharp but noiseless squall of a
hornpipe right over the Grand Turk's head; and then, by a dexterous
sleight, pitching his cap up into the mizentop for a shelf, he goes down
rollicking so far at least as he remains visible from the deck,
reversing all other processions, by bringing up the rear with music. But
ere stepping into the cabin doorway below, he pauses, ships a new face
altogether, and, then, independent, hilarious little Flask enters King
Ahab's presence, in the character of Abjectus, or the Slave.
It is
not the least among the strange things bred by the intense
artificialness of sea-usages, that while in the open air of the deck
some officers will, upon provocation, bear themselves boldly and
defyingly enough towards their commander; yet, ten to one, let those
very officers the next moment go down to their customary dinner in that
same commander's cabin, and straightway their inoffensive, not to say
deprecatory and humble air towards him, as he sits at the head of the
table; this is marvellous, sometimes most comical. Wherefore this
difference? A problem? Perhaps not. To have been Belshazzar, King of
Babylon; and to have been Belshazzar, not haughtily but courteously,
therein certainly must have been some touch of mundane grandeur. But he
who in the rightly regal and intelligent spirit presides over his own
private dinner-table of invited guests, that man's unchallenged power
and dominion of individual influence for the time; that man's royalty of
state transcends Belshazzar's, for Belshazzar was not the greatest. Who
has but once dined his friends, has tasted what it is to be Caesar. It
is a witchery of social czarship which there is no withstanding. Now, if
to this consideration you super-add the official supremacy of a
ship-master, then, by inference, you will derive the cause of that
peculiarity of sea-life just mentioned.
Over his ivory-inlaid
table, Ahab presided like a mute, maned sea-lion on the white coral
beach, surrounded by his war-like but still deferential cubs. In his own
proper turn, each officer waited to be served. They were as little
children before Ahab; and yet, in Ahab, there seemed not to lurk the
smallest social arrogance. With one mind, their intent eyes all fastened
upon the old man's knife, as he carved the chief dish before him. I do
not suppose that for the world they would have profaned that moment with
the slightest observation, even upon so neutral a topic as the weather.
No! And when reaching out his knife and fork, between which the slice
of beef was locked, Ahab thereby motioned Starbuck's plate towards him,
the mate received his meat as though receiving alms; and cut it
tenderly; and a little started if, perchance, the knife grazed against
the plate; and chewed it noiselessly; and swallowed it, not without
circumspection. For, like the Coronation banquet at Frankfort, where the
German Emperor profoundly dines with the seven imperial electors, so
these cabin meals were somehow solemn meals, eaten in awful silence; and
yet at table old Ahab forbade not conversation; only he himself was
dumb. What a relief it was to choking Stubb, when a rat made a sudden
racket in the hold below. And poor little Flask, he was the youngest
son, and little boy of this weary family party. His were the shin-bones
of the saline beef; his would have been the drumsticks. For Flask to
have presumed to help himself, this must have seemed to him tantamount
to larceny in the first degree. Had he helped himself at the table,
doubtless, never more would he have been able to hold his head up in
this honest world; nevertheless, strange to say, Ahab never forbade him.
And had Flask helped himself, the chances were Ahab had never so much
as noticed it. Least of all, did Flask presume to help himself to
butter. Whether he thought the owners of the ship denied it to him, on
account of its clotting his clear, sunny complexion; or whether he
deemed that, on so long a voyage in such marketless waters, butter was
at a premium, and therefore was not for him, a subaltern; however it
was, Flask, alas! was a butterless man!
It's an interesting little scene. Ahab presiding over the dinner table like some abusive father, everyone afraid to speak or do anything that smacks of independence. And poor Flask, the least among them, stuck with the leftovers, without so much as butter for his biscuit. Fear overruling all impulses, including hunger.
Ahab sort of reminds me of a very wealthy man, now long dead, from my home town. When I was a high school senior, I received a scholarship that was named after him. It was customary that the two recipients of this scholarship--the valedictorian and salutatorian of the graduating class--would meet with this man one morning, have pictures taken with him for the newspaper, and then be treated to breakfast.
When I showed up at this man's place of business, he was surrounded by a whole crew of adults. The principal of the high school. The vice president of the man's company. A newspaper reporter and photographer. Nobody was talking. They had smiles plastered on their faces, and they seemed to be waiting for the man, who was seated at a desk, to say or do something.
I quickly sized up the situation. Here was a man who liked people to be uncomfortable in his presence. Liked the power that came along with his extreme wealth (he was a millionaire many times over). I saw some empty chairs directly in front of the man's desk, and, being very young and unimpressed by this kind of bullying, I walked up to a chair and sat down. The man stared at me, and I stared back at him, not letting my gaze drop.
I knew the man was not going to rescind the scholarship. That would court bad publicity, especially considering members of the local media were already present. I also knew that I wasn't going to spend the next two hours in uncomfortable silence. So, I reached out, stuck my hand in the man's face, and thanked him for the scholarship.
He looked at my hand as if I was some diseased leper for several moments, and then he reached out and shook my hand. Not firmly. He said some form of "you're welcome," and then people went into action. They lined us up for the picture. Told us all to smile. The man remained seated at his desk, from what I remember, so we all sort of crowded around him, like grandkids flocking around a grandparent in a wheelchair for a Christmas picture. The man handed us checks. Then we went out to breakfast.
Of course, at the restaurant, which was chosen by the man, the silence continued at the table. The man ordered his meal first, of course. Then the adults. Then my classmate and myself. People were ordering light meals, that didn't cost a whole lot of money. I ordered something large and expensive. During the breakfast, there were a lot of knives and forks clattering against plates. Not a whole lot of conversation. So I started talking.
Again, I don't remember the details of the conversation I initiated. At the time, my classmate and I were in rehearsals for the senior class play, so I imagine we talked quite a bit about that. It was Thornton Wilder's
Our Town, and I was playing the Stage Manager. My classmate was playing either Mrs. Webb or Mrs. Gibbs. I don't remember. But I wasn't going to pass an entire hour in complete silence, watching a rich man sop up egg yolk with his toast.
And then it was over. I left the restaurant with a check in my pocket and dignity intact.
I refuse to be made to feel inferior to anyone, especially because I don't have money or the right social position. Nobody should have to put up with that. My dad worked hard for over 50 years, fixing people's blocked sewers, installing toilets and water heaters. He treated his customers with respect and kindness, whether they were millionaires or unemployed and on disability.
In this way, Saint Marty takes after his father, and Saint Marty is thankful for that.
