A Shelter in the Arsacides

Hitherto, in descriptively treating of the Sperm Whale, I have chiefly dwelt upon the marvels of his outer aspect; or separately and in detail upon some few interior structural features. But to a large and thorough sweeping comprehension of him, it behooves me now to unbutton him still further, and untagging the points of his hose, unbuckling his garters, and casting loose the hooks and the eyes of the joints of his innermost bones, set him before you in his ultimatum; that is to say, in his unconditional skeleton.

So far, I have mainly described the wonders of the Sperm Whale's outward appearance. I have also examined a few internal features separately and in detail. But to give you a broad and thorough understanding of him, I must now unbutton him further. I must untie his stockings, unbuckle his garters, and unfasten the hooks and eyes of his innermost bone joints. Then I can present him to you in his ultimate form, his unconditional skeleton.

But how now, Ishmael? How is it, that you, a mere oarsman in the fishery, pretend to know aught about the subterranean parts of the whale? Did erudite Stubb, mounted upon your capstan, deliver lectures on the anatomy of the Cetacea; and by help of the windlass, hold up a specimen rib for exhibition? Explain thyself, Ishmael. Can you land a full-grown whale on your deck for examination, as a cook dishes a roast-pig? Surely not. A veritable witness have you hitherto been, Ishmael; but have a care how you seize the privilege of Jonah alone; the privilege of discoursing upon the joists and beams; the rafters, ridge-pole, sleepers, and under-pinnings, making up the frame-work of leviathan; and belike of the tallow-vats, dairy-rooms, butteries, and cheeseries in his bowels.

But wait, Ishmael. How can you, a mere oarsman in the whale fishery, claim to know anything about a whale’s hidden inner parts? Did the learned Stubb stand on your capstan and lecture on whale anatomy? Did he use the windlass to hold up a whale’s rib for display? Explain yourself, Ishmael. Can you land a full-grown whale on your deck for examination, as a cook serves a roast pig? Surely not. You have been a truthful witness so far, Ishmael. But be careful about claiming a privilege that belongs to Jonah alone. That is the privilege of discussing the joists and beams, the rafters, ridgepole, sleepers, and supports that make up the whale’s frame. And perhaps also the privilege of discussing the tallow vats, dairy rooms, butter rooms, and cheese rooms in its belly.

I confess, that since Jonah, few whalemen have penetrated very far beneath the skin of the adult whale; nevertheless, I have been blessed with an opportunity to dissect him in miniature. In a ship I belonged to, a small cub Sperm Whale was once bodily hoisted to the deck for his poke or bag, to make sheaths for the barbs of the harpoons, and for the heads of the lances. Think you I let that chance go, without using my boat-hatchet and jack-knife, and breaking the seal and reading all the contents of that young cub?

I admit that since Jonah, few whalers have gone far beneath the skin of an adult whale. But I have been lucky enough to dissect one in miniature. Once, on a ship I served on, a small Sperm Whale calf was hoisted whole onto the deck. The crew wanted its poke, or bag, to make sheaths for the harpoon barbs and lance heads. Do you think I let that chance pass? Of course I used my boat hatchet and pocketknife to break the seal and read everything inside that young calf.

And as for my exact knowledge of the bones of the leviathan in their gigantic, full grown development, for that rare knowledge I am indebted to my late royal friend Tranquo, king of Tranque, one of the Arsacides. For being at Tranque, years ago, when attached to the trading-ship Dey of Algiers, I was invited to spend part of the Arsacidean holidays with the lord of Tranque, at his retired palm villa at Pupella; a sea-side glen not very far distant from what our sailors called Bamboo-Town, his capital.

I owe my exact knowledge of the bones of a fully grown leviathan to my late royal friend Tranquo, king of Tranque. Tranquo was one of the Arsacides. Years ago, I was in Tranque as a member of the crew of the trading ship Dey of Algiers. The king invited me to spend part of the Arsacidean holidays at his secluded palm villa in Pupella. The villa was in a seaside valley, not far from his capital, which our sailors called Bamboo-Town.

Among many other fine qualities, my royal friend Tranquo, being gifted with a devout love for all matters of barbaric vertu, had brought together in Pupella whatever rare things the more ingenious of his people could invent; chiefly carved woods of wonderful devices, chiselled shells, inlaid spears, costly paddles, aromatic canoes; and all these distributed among whatever natural wonders, the wonder-freighted, tribute-rendering waves had cast upon his shores.

Among his many other fine qualities, my royal friend Tranquo had a devoted love of all kinds of barbaric art. He had gathered in Pupella every rare thing his most ingenious people could invent. These were chiefly carved woods with wonderful designs, carved shells, inlaid spears, costly paddles, and fragrant canoes. He arranged them among the natural wonders that the waves had carried as tribute to his shores.

Chief among these latter was a great Sperm Whale, which, after an unusually long raging gale, had been found dead and stranded, with his head against a cocoa-nut tree, whose plumage-like, tufted droopings seemed his verdant jet. When the vast body had at last been stripped of its fathom-deep enfoldings, and the bones become dust dry in the sun, then the skeleton was carefully transported up the Pupella glen, where a grand temple of lordly palms now sheltered it.

Chief among the latter was a great sperm whale. After an unusually long, fierce storm, the whale was found dead and stranded. Its head lay against a coconut tree, whose drooping, tufted leaves looked like the whale’s green spout. At last, the whale’s thick covering, a fathom deep, was stripped away, and its bones dried in the sun. The skeleton was then carefully carried up the Pupella glen, where a grand temple of majestic palms now sheltered it.

The ribs were hung with trophies; the vertebræ were carved with Arsacidean annals, in strange hieroglyphics; in the skull, the priests kept up an unextinguished aromatic flame, so that the mystic head again sent forth its vapory spout; while, suspended from a bough, the terrific lower jaw vibrated over all the devotees, like the hair-hung sword that so affrighted Damocles.

Trophies hung from the ribs. The vertebrae were carved with the history of the Arsacides in strange hieroglyphics. Inside the skull, the priests kept an aromatic flame burning continuously. So the mystic head once again sent out a spout of vapor. Meanwhile, the terrifying lower jaw hung from a branch and trembled above all the worshippers. It was like the sword hanging by a hair that so frightened Damocles.

It was a wondrous sight. The wood was green as mosses of the Icy Glen; the trees stood high and haughty, feeling their living sap; the industrious earth beneath was as a weaver’s loom, with a gorgeous carpet on it, whereof the ground-vine tendrils formed the warp and woof, and the living flowers the figures. All the trees, with all their laden branches; all the shrubs, and ferns, and grasses; the message-carrying air; all these unceasingly were active. Through the lacings of the leaves, the great sun seemed a flying shuttle weaving the unwearied verdure. Oh, busy weaver! unseen weaver!—pause!—one word!—whither flows the fabric? what palace may it deck? wherefore all these ceaseless toilings? Speak, weaver!—stay thy hand!—but one single word with thee! Nay—the shuttle flies—the figures float from forth the loom; the freshet-rushing carpet for ever slides away. The weaver-god, he weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal voice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened; and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak through it. For even so it is in all material factories. The spoken words that are inaudible among the flying spindles; those same words are plainly heard without the walls, bursting from the opened casements. Thereby have villainies been detected. Ah, mortal! then, be heedful; for so, in all this din of the great world’s loom, thy subtlest thinkings may be overheard afar.

It was a wondrous sight. The woods were as green as the mosses of the Icy Glen. The trees stood tall and proud, full of living sap. The industrious earth beneath them was like a weaver’s loom, with a gorgeous carpet on it. Ground-vine tendrils formed the threads woven together, and living flowers made the patterns. All the trees, with all their heavy branches, were constantly active. So were all the shrubs, ferns, and grasses, and the air that carried messages. Through the interlaced leaves, the great sun seemed like a flying shuttle, weaving the tireless greenery. Oh, busy weaver! Unseen weaver! Pause! One word! Where is the fabric going? What palace might it decorate? Why all this endless labor? Speak, weaver! Stop your hand! Just one word with you! But no, the shuttle flies on, and the patterns flow from the loom. The carpet rushes forever away like a flood. The weaver-god weaves, and his weaving deafens him, so that he hears no mortal voice. The humming deafens us who watch the loom, too. Only when we escape it will we hear the thousand voices that speak through it. It is just the same in all factories. Words that cannot be heard among the flying spindles can be heard clearly outside the walls. They burst from the open windows. In this way, wicked deeds have been discovered. Ah, mortal, take care. For amid all the noise of the great world’s loom, your subtlest thoughts may be overheard far away.

Now, amid the green, life-restless loom of that Arsacidean wood, the great, white, worshipped skeleton lay lounging—a gigantic idler! Yet, as the ever-woven verdant warp and woof intermixed and hummed around him, the mighty idler seemed the cunning weaver; himself all woven over with the vines; every month assuming greener, fresher verdure; but himself a skeleton. Life folded Death; Death trellised Life; the grim god wived with youthful Life, and begat him curly-headed glories.

Amid the green, life-filled loom of the Arsacidean wood, the great white skeleton lay lounging, worshipped by all. What a gigantic idler! Yet as the ever-woven green threads hummed and intertwined around him, the mighty idler seemed to be the skillful weaver. Vines covered him completely, growing greener and fresher each month. But he was still a skeleton. Life wrapped itself around Death. Death supported Life like a trellis. The grim god married youthful Life, and together they produced curly-headed glories.

Now, when with royal Tranquo I visited this wondrous whale, and saw the skull an altar, and the artificial smoke ascending from where the real jet had issued, I marvelled that the king should regard a chapel as an object of vertu. He laughed. But more I marvelled that the priests should swear that smoky jet of his was genuine. To and fro I paced before this skeleton—brushed the vines aside—broke through the ribs—and with a ball of Arsacidean twine, wandered, eddied long amid its many winding, shaded colonnades and arbours. But soon my line was out; and following it back, I emerged from the opening where I entered. I saw no living thing within; naught was there but bones.

When I visited this wondrous whale with royal Tranquo, I saw that its skull was an altar. Artificial smoke rose from the place where the real spout had once come out. I was amazed that the king regarded a chapel as a work of art. He laughed. But I was even more amazed that the priests swore his smoky spout was genuine. I paced back and forth before the skeleton. I brushed the vines aside and pushed through the ribs. Carrying a ball of Arsacidean twine, I wandered for a long time through its many winding, shaded rows of columns and leafy bowers. But soon my twine ran out. I followed it back and emerged through the opening where I had entered. I saw no living thing inside. There was nothing there but bones.

Cutting me a green measuring-rod, I once more dived within the skeleton. From their arrow-slit in the skull, the priests perceived me taking the altitude of the final rib, “How now!” they shouted; “Dar’st thou measure this our god! That’s for us.” “Aye, priests—well, how long do ye make him, then?” But hereupon a fierce contest rose among them, concerning feet and inches; they cracked each other’s sconces with their yard-sticks—the great skull echoed—and seizing that lucky chance, I quickly concluded my own admeasurements.

I cut a fresh measuring rod and climbed back inside the skeleton. From their arrow slit in the skull, the priests saw me measuring the height of the last rib. “What’s this!” they shouted. “Do you dare measure our god? That’s our job.” “Yes, priests. Well, how long do you say he is, then?” But a fierce argument broke out among them over the feet and inches. They cracked each other’s heads with their yardsticks, and the great skull echoed. Seizing that lucky chance, I quickly finished my own measurements.

These admeasurements I now propose to set before you. But first, be it recorded, that, in this matter, I am not free to utter any fancied measurement I please. Because there are skeleton authorities you can refer to, to test my accuracy. There is a Leviathanic Museum, they tell me, in Hull, England, one of the whaling ports of that country, where they have some fine specimens of fin-backs and other whales. Likewise, I have heard that in the museum of Manchester, in New Hampshire, they have what the proprietors call “the only perfect specimen of a Greenland or River Whale in the United States.” Moreover, at a place in Yorkshire, England, Burton Constable by name, a certain Sir Clifford Constable has in his possession the skeleton of a Sperm Whale, but of moderate size, by no means of the full-grown magnitude of my friend King Tranquo’s.

I will now give you these measurements. But first, let me say that I cannot simply invent whatever measurements I please. There are whale skeletons you can consult to check my accuracy. I am told there is a Leviathanic Museum in Hull, England, one of that country’s whaling ports. It has some fine specimens of fin-backs and other whales. I have also heard that a museum in Manchester, New Hampshire, has a specimen. Its proprietors call it “the only perfect specimen of a Greenland or River Whale in the United States.” Moreover, at Burton Constable in Yorkshire, England, Sir Clifford Constable owns the skeleton of a Sperm Whale. It is only of moderate size, nowhere near the full-grown size of my friend King Tranquo’s.

In both cases, the stranded whales to which these two skeletons belonged, were originally claimed by their proprietors upon similar grounds. King Tranquo seizing his because he wanted it; and Sir Clifford, because he was lord of the seignories of those parts. Sir Clifford’s whale has been articulated throughout; so that, like a great chest of drawers, you can open and shut him, in all his bony cavities—spread out his ribs like a gigantic fan—and swing all day upon his lower jaw. Locks are to be put upon some of his trap-doors and shutters; and a footman will show round future visitors with a bunch of keys at his side. Sir Clifford thinks of charging twopence for a peep at the whispering gallery in the spinal column; threepence to hear the echo in the hollow of his cerebellum; and sixpence for the unrivalled view from his forehead.

In both cases, the owners claimed the stranded whales these two skeletons came from on similar grounds. King Tranquo seized his whale because he wanted it. Sir Clifford claimed his because he was lord of the local estates. Sir Clifford’s whale has been fully assembled. So, like a great chest of drawers, you can open and shut all its bony cavities. You can spread its ribs like a gigantic fan and swing all day on its lower jaw. Some of its trapdoors and shutters will have locks. A footman will show future visitors around, carrying a bunch of keys at his side. Sir Clifford is thinking of charging twopence for a peek at the whispering gallery in the spinal column. He may charge threepence to hear the echo in the hollow of the cerebellum. The unrivaled view from the whale’s forehead may cost sixpence.

The skeleton dimensions I shall now proceed to set down are copied verbatim from my right arm, where I had them tattooed; as in my wild wanderings at that period, there was no other secure way of preserving such valuable statistics. But as I was crowded for space, and wished the other parts of my body to remain a blank page for a poem I was then composing—at least, what untattooed parts might remain—I did not trouble myself with the odd inches; nor, indeed, should inches at all enter into a congenial admeasurement of the whale.

The skeleton measurements I am about to give are copied word for word from my right arm, where I had them tattooed. During my wild wanderings at the time, there was no other secure way to preserve such valuable statistics. But I was short of space. I also wanted the rest of my body, or at least whatever parts remained untattooed, to stay blank for a poem I was composing. So I did not bother with the extra inches. Indeed, inches have no place in a fitting measurement of a whale.