CHAPTER 4 The Counterpane

Uponwakingnextmorningaboutdaylight,IfoundQueequeg'sarmthrownovermeinthemostlovingandaffectionatemanner.YouhadalmostthoughtIhadbeenhiswife.Thecounterpanewasofpatchwork,fullofoddlittleparti-colouredsquaresandtriangles;andthisarmofhistattooedalloverwithaninterminableCretanlabyrinthofafigure,notwopartsofwhichwereofonepreciseshade—owingIsupposetohiskeepinghisarmatseaunmethodicallyinsunandshade,hisshirtsleevesirregularlyrolledupatvarioustimes—thissamearmofhis,Isay,lookedforalltheworldlikeastripofthatsamepatchworkquilt.Indeed,partlylyingonitasthearmdidwhenIfirstawoke,Icouldhardlytellitfromthequilt,theysoblendedtheirhuestogether;anditwasonlybythesenseofweightandpressurethatIcouldtellthatQueequegwashuggingme.

Mysensationswerestrange.Letmetrytoexplainthem.WhenIwasachild,Iwellrememberasomewhatsimilarcircumstancethatbefellme;whetheritwasarealityoradream,Inevercouldentirelysettle.Thecircumstancewasthis.Ihadbeencuttingupsomecaperorother—Ithinkitwastryingtocrawlupthechimney,asIhadseenalittlesweepdoafewdaysprevious;andmystepmotherwho,somehoworother,wasallthetimewhippingme,orsendingmetobedsupperless,—mymotherdraggedmebythelegsoutofthechimneyandpackedmeofftobed,thoughitwasonlytwoo'clockintheafternoonofthe21stJune,thelongestdayintheyearinourhemisphere.Ifeltdreadfully.Buttherewasnohelpforit,soupstairsIwenttomylittleroominthethirdfloor,undressedmyselfasslowlyaspossiblesoastokilltime,andwithabittersighgotbetweenthesheets.

IlaytheredismallycalculatingthatsixteenentirehoursmustelapsebeforeIcouldhopeforaresurrection.Sixteenhoursinbed!thesmallofmybackachedtothinkofit.Anditwassolighttoo;thesunshininginatthewindow,andagreatrattlingofcoachesinthestreets,andthesoundofgayvoicesalloverthehouse.Ifeltworseandworse—atlastIgotup,dressed,andsoftlygoingdowninmystockingedfeet,soughtoutmystepmother,andsuddenlythrewmyselfatherfeet,beseechingherasaparticularfavourtogivemeagoodslipperingformymisbehaviour;anythingindeedbutcondemningmetolieabedsuchanunendurablelengthoftime.Butshewasthebestandmostconscientiousofstepmothers,andbackIhadtogotomyroom.ForseveralhoursIlaytherebroadawake,feelingagreatdealworsethanIhaveeverdonesince,evenfromthegreatestsubsequentmisfortunes.AtlastImusthavefallenintoatroublednightmareofadoze;andslowlywakingfromit—halfsteepedindreams—Iopenedmyeyes,andthebeforesun-litroomwasnowwrappedinouterdarkness.InstantlyIfeltashockrunningthroughallmyframe;nothingwastobeseen,andnothingwastobeheard;butasupernaturalhandseemedplacedinmine.Myarmhungoverthecounterpane,andthenameless,unimaginable,silentformorphantom,towhichthehandbelonged,seemedcloselyseatedbymybed-side.Forwhatseemedagespiledonages,Ilaythere,frozenwiththemostawfulfears,notdaringtodragawaymyhand;yeteverthinkingthatifIcouldbutstiritonesingleinch,thehorridspellwouldbebroken.Iknewnothowthisconsciousnessatlastglidedawayfromme;butwakinginthemorning,Ishudderinglyremembereditall,andfordaysandweeksandmonthsafterwardsIlostmyselfinconfoundingattemptstoexplainthemystery.Nay,tothisveryhour,Ioftenpuzzlemyselfwithit.

Now,takeawaytheawfulfear,andmysensationsatfeelingthesupernaturalhandinminewereverysimilar,intheirstrangeness,tothosewhichIexperiencedonwakingupandseeingQueequeg'spaganarmthrownroundme.Butatlengthallthepastnight'seventssoberlyrecurred,onebyone,infixedreality,andthenIlayonlyalivetothecomicalpredicament.ForthoughItriedtomovehisarm—unlockhisbridegroomclasp—yet,sleepingashewas,hestillhuggedmetightly,asthoughnaughtbutdeathshouldpartustwain.Inowstrovetorousehim—"Queequeg!"—buthisonlyanswerwasasnore.Ithenrolledover,myneckfeelingasifitwereinahorse-collar;andsuddenlyfeltaslightscratch.Throwingasidethecounterpane,therelaythetomahawksleepingbythesavage'sside,asifitwereahatchet-facedbaby.Aprettypickle,truly,thoughtI;abedhereinastrangehouseinthebroadday,withacannibalandatomahawk!"Queequeg!—inthenameofgoodness,Queequeg,wake!"Atlength,bydintofmuchwriggling,andloudandincessantexpostulationsupontheunbecomingnessofhishuggingafellowmaleinthatmatrimonialsortofstyle,Isucceededinextractingagrunt;andpresently,hedrewbackhisarm,shookhimselfalloverlikeaNewfoundlanddogjustfromthewater,andsatupinbed,stiffasapike-staff,lookingatme,andrubbinghiseyesasifhedidnotaltogetherrememberhowIcametobethere,thoughadimconsciousnessofknowingsomethingaboutmeseemedslowlydawningoverhim.Meanwhile,Ilayquietlyeyeinghim,havingnoseriousmisgivingsnow,andbentuponnarrowlyobservingsocuriousacreature.When,atlast,hismindseemedmadeuptouchingthecharacterofhisbedfellow,andhebecame,asitwere,reconciledtothefact;hejumpedoutuponthefloor,andbycertainsignsandsoundsgavemetounderstandthat,ifitpleasedme,hewoulddressfirstandthenleavemetodressafterwards,leavingthewholeapartmenttomyself.ThinksI,Queequeg,underthecircumstances,thisisaverycivilizedoverture;but,thetruthis,thesesavageshaveaninnatesenseofdelicacy,saywhatyouwill;itismarvelloushowessentiallypolitetheyare.IpaythisparticularcomplimenttoQueequeg,becausehetreatedmewithsomuchcivilityandconsideration,whileIwasguiltyofgreatrudeness;staringathimfromthebed,andwatchingallhistoilettemotions;forthetimemycuriositygettingthebetterofmybreeding.Nevertheless,amanlikeQueequegyoudon'tseeeveryday,heandhiswayswerewellworthunusualregarding.

Hecommenceddressingattopbydonninghisbeaverhat,averytallone,bytheby,andthen—stillminushistrowsers—hehunteduphisboots.Whatundertheheavenshediditfor,Icannottell,buthisnextmovementwastocrushhimself—bootsinhand,andhaton—underthebed;when,fromsundryviolentgaspingsandstrainings,Iinferredhewashardatworkbootinghimself;thoughbynolawofproprietythatIeverheardof,isanymanrequiredtobeprivatewhenputtingonhisboots.ButQueequeg,doyousee,wasacreatureinthetransitionstage—neithercaterpillarnorbutterfly.Hewasjustenoughcivilizedtoshowoffhisoutlandishnessinthestrangestpossiblemanners.Hiseducationwasnotyetcompleted.Hewasanundergraduate.Ifhehadnotbeenasmalldegreecivilized,heveryprobablywouldnothavetroubledhimselfwithbootsatall;butthen,ifhehadnotbeenstillasavage,heneverwouldhavedreamtofgettingunderthebedtoputthemon.Atlast,heemergedwithhishatverymuchdentedandcrusheddownoverhiseyes,andbegancreakingandlimpingabouttheroom,asif,notbeingmuchaccustomedtoboots,hispairofdamp,wrinkledcowhideones—probablynotmadetoordereither—ratherpinchedandtormentedhimatthefirstgooffofabittercoldmorning.

Seeing,now,thattherewerenocurtainstothewindow,andthatthestreetbeingverynarrow,thehouseoppositecommandedaplainviewintotheroom,andobservingmoreandmoretheindecorousfigurethatQueequegmade,stavingaboutwithlittleelsebuthishatandbootson;IbeggedhimaswellasIcould,toacceleratehistoiletsomewhat,andparticularlytogetintohispantaloonsassoonaspossible.Hecomplied,andthenproceededtowashhimself.AtthattimeinthemorninganyChristianwouldhavewashedhisface;butQueequeg,tomyamazement,contentedhimselfwithrestrictinghisablutionstohischest,arms,andhands.Hethendonnedhiswaistcoat,andtakingupapieceofhardsoaponthewash-standcentretable,dippeditintowaterandcommencedlatheringhisface.Iwaswatchingtoseewherehekepthisrazor,whenloandbehold,hetakestheharpoonfromthebedcorner,slipsoutthelongwoodenstock,unsheathesthehead,whetsitalittleonhisboot,andstridinguptothebitofmirroragainstthewall,beginsavigorousscraping,orratherharpooningofhischeeks.ThinksI,Queequeg,thisisusingRogers'sbestcutlerywithavengeance.AfterwardsIwonderedthelessatthisoperationwhenIcametoknowofwhatfinesteeltheheadofaharpoonismade,andhowexceedinglysharpthelongstraightedgesarealwayskept.

Therestofhistoiletwassoonachieved,andheproudlymarchedoutoftheroom,wrappedupinhisgreatpilotmonkeyjacket,andsportinghisharpoonlikeamarshal'sbaton.