Now, take away the awful fear, and my sensations at feeling the
supernatural hand in mine were very similar, in the 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.
Queequeg's ablutions don't seem that strange to me. He basically does the same things I do every morning. I wash, shave, get dressed, put on my shoes. The fact that Queequeg shaves with a harpoon makes sense. As Ishmael observes, its steel is "exceedingly sharp," considering it has to puncture the thick hide of a whale. Again, it's a matter of simply being different. To Queequeg, I'm sure that Ishmael is just as alien.
A good friend recently commented that she had forgotten how funny Melville's novel is. The scene of Ishmael trying to escape the marital arm of Queequeg is worthy of Steve Martin and John Candy in
Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Most people think of
Moby-Dick as this incredibly dense and serious tome about obsession and death, and it does have all that. However, layered in its pages is also a lot of comedy. I had forgotten this fact, as well.
Tonight, I am taking my son snow tubing. Rather, my wife and I are driving my son to the hill, and we are watching him tube. I will not lower my ass into a circular piece of inflated rubber and launch myself down a steep slope of snow to a frozen lake. That, for me, is a thing of nightmares, the ice, as I careen out of control, opening up and swallowing me like a cherry Lifesaver.
Nay, I will stand at the top. Take pictures. Trudge down to the lodge at the base of the hill to partake in watery hot chocolate, and then trudge back up the hill to take more pictures. Tubing is my son's idea of a great night. My fun comes later, when I shed my clothes, get into my pajamas, and make myself a more adult brand of hot chocolate.
That is my Friday night. The start of my weekend. Perhaps I'll meet Queequeg on the slopes. Or Ishmael. They'll be sailing down the icy hill on tubes, whooping, finally united in their joy and panic.
After all, underneath, we are all the same.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his crazy, daredevil son. And alcohol.
