The Carpenter

Seat thyself sultanically among the moons of Saturn, and take high abstracted man alone; and he seems a wonder, a grandeur, and a woe. But from the same point, take mankind in mass, and for the most part, they seem a mob of unnecessary duplicates, both contemporary and hereditary. But most humble though he was, and far from furnishing an example of the high, humane abstraction; the Pequod’s carpenter was no duplicate; hence, he now comes in person on this stage.

Imagine yourself seated like a sultan among Saturn’s moons, contemplating humanity as a noble idea. A human being seems wondrous, grand, and tragic. But from the same vantage point, look at humanity as a whole. For the most part, people seem like a crowd of unnecessary copies, both of their contemporaries and their ancestors. The Pequod’s carpenter was very humble and far from an example of that noble idea of humanity. But he was no copy, so he now appears in person on this stage.

Like all sea-going ship carpenters, and more especially those belonging to whaling vessels, he was, to a certain off-handed, practical extent, alike experienced in numerous trades and callings collateral to his own; the carpenter’s pursuit being the ancient and outbranching trunk of all those numerous handicrafts which more or less have to do with wood as an auxiliary material. But, besides the application to him of the generic remark above, this carpenter of the Pequod was singularly efficient in those thousand nameless mechanical emergencies continually recurring in a large ship, upon a three or four years’ voyage, in uncivilized and far-distant seas. For not to speak of his readiness in ordinary duties:—repairing stove boats, sprung spars, reforming the shape of clumsy-bladed oars, inserting bull’s eyes in the deck, or new tree-nails in the side planks, and other miscellaneous matters more directly pertaining to his special business; he was moreover unhesitatingly expert in all manner of conflicting aptitudes, both useful and capricious.

Like all ship carpenters, and especially those on whaling vessels, he had some practical experience in many related trades. Carpentry is the ancient, branching trunk from which all the crafts that use wood have grown. But beyond this general skill, the Pequod's carpenter was unusually capable in the countless nameless mechanical emergencies that kept arising aboard a large ship. These occurred during voyages of three or four years in uncivilized, distant seas. He was ready to handle ordinary duties, such as repairing damaged boats and bent spars, reshaping clumsy oar blades, installing bull's eye deck lights, and fitting new wooden pegs in the side planks. These were among the various jobs more directly connected with his trade. Beyond them, he was an expert in all kinds of contrasting skills, both useful and whimsical, and practiced them without hesitation.

The one grand stage where he enacted all his various parts so manifold, was his vice-bench; a long rude ponderous table furnished with several vices, of different sizes, and both of iron and of wood. At all times except when whales were alongside, this bench was securely lashed athwartships against the rear of the Try-works.

The grand stage where he played all his many roles was his workbench. It was a long, rough, heavy table fitted with several vises of different sizes, made of iron and wood. Except when whales were alongside the ship, the bench was securely lashed across the ship against the back of the Try-works.

A belaying pin is found too large to be easily inserted into its hole: the carpenter claps it into one of his ever-ready vices, and straightway files it smaller. A lost land-bird of strange plumage strays on board, and is made a captive: out of clean shaved rods of right-whale bone, and cross-beams of sperm whale ivory, the carpenter makes a pagoda-looking cage for it. An oarsman sprains his wrist: the carpenter concocts a soothing lotion. Stubb longed for vermillion stars to be painted upon the blade of his every oar; screwing each oar in his big vice of wood, the carpenter symmetrically supplies the constellation. A sailor takes a fancy to wear shark-bone ear-rings: the carpenter drills his ears. Another has the toothache: the carpenter out pincers, and clapping one hand upon his bench bids him be seated there; but the poor fellow unmanageably winces under the unconcluded operation; whirling round the handle of his wooden vice, the carpenter signs him to clap his jaw in that, if he would have him draw the tooth.

A belaying pin is too large to fit easily into its hole. The carpenter clamps it in one of his ever-ready vises and files it down. A lost land bird with strange plumage wanders aboard and is captured. The carpenter makes it a pagoda-like cage from cleanly shaved rods of right-whale bone and crossbeams of sperm whale ivory. An oarsman sprains his wrist. The carpenter mixes a soothing lotion. Stubb wants vermilion stars painted on the blade of every oar. The carpenter clamps each oar in his big wooden vise and paints the constellation in a symmetrical pattern. A sailor takes a fancy to wearing shark-bone earrings. The carpenter drills his ears. Another sailor has a toothache. The carpenter pulls out his pincers, places a hand on his bench, and tells the sailor to sit there. But the poor fellow flinches uncontrollably before the operation is finished. The carpenter spins the handle of his wooden vise and signals for the sailor to put his jaw in it if he wants the tooth pulled.

Thus, this carpenter was prepared at all points, and alike indifferent and without respect in all. Teeth he accounted bits of ivory; heads he deemed but top-blocks; men themselves he lightly held for capstans. But while now upon so wide a field thus variously accomplished and with such liveliness of expertness in him, too; all this would seem to argue some uncommon vivacity of intelligence. But not precisely so. For nothing was this man more remarkable, than for a certain impersonal stolidity as it were; impersonal, I say; for it so shaded off into the surrounding infinite of things, that it seemed one with the general stolidity discernible in the whole visible world; which while pauselessly active in uncounted modes, still eternally holds its peace, and ignores you, though you dig foundations for cathedrals. Yet was this half-horrible stolidity in him, involving, too, as it appeared, an all-ramifying heartlessness;—yet was it oddly dashed at times, with an old, crutch-like, antediluvian, wheezing humorousness, not unstreaked now and then with a certain grizzled wittiness; such as might have served to pass the time during the midnight watch on the bearded forecastle of Noah’s ark. Was it that this old carpenter had been a life-long wanderer, whose much rolling, to and fro, not only had gathered no moss; but what is more, had rubbed off whatever small outward clingings might have originally pertained to him? He was a stript abstract; an unfractioned integral; uncompromised as a new-born babe; living without premeditated reference to this world or the next. You might almost say, that this strange uncompromisedness in him involved a sort of unintelligence; for in his numerous trades, he did not seem to work so much by reason or by instinct, or simply because he had been tutored to it, or by any intermixture of all these, even or uneven; but merely by a kind of deaf and dumb, spontaneous literal process. He was a pure manipulator; his brain, if he had ever had one, must have early oozed along into the muscles of his fingers. He was like one of those unreasoning but still highly useful, multum in parvo, Sheffield contrivances, assuming the exterior—though a little swelled—of a common pocket knife; but containing, not only blades of various sizes, but also screw-drivers, cork-screws, tweezers, awls, pens, rulers, nail-filers, countersinkers. So, if his superiors wanted to use the carpenter for a screw-driver, all they had to do was to open that part of him, and the screw was fast: or if for tweezers, take him up by the legs, and there they were.

So the carpenter was ready for anything, and equally indifferent and disrespectful toward everything. He considered teeth bits of ivory, heads merely top-blocks, and men themselves little more than capstans. His many skills across such a wide range of work, and the lively expertise he showed, might suggest unusual intelligence. But not quite. Nothing was more remarkable about the man than a certain impersonal dullness. I call it impersonal because it faded into the infinite world of things around him. It seemed one with the general dullness visible throughout the world. That world is ceaselessly active in countless ways, yet it remains eternally silent and ignores you, even as you dig foundations for cathedrals. Yet his half-terrible dullness, which also seemed to involve a heartlessness reaching into everything, was sometimes oddly mixed with humor. His humor was old, wheezing, and ancient as a crutch, and sometimes streaked with a certain grizzled wit. It might have helped pass the time during the midnight watch on the bearded forecastle of Noah’s ark. Had the old carpenter wandered all his life, rolling back and forth without gathering moss? Had his travels also rubbed off whatever small outward attachments he might originally have had? He was a stripped-down abstraction, a whole with no fractions. He was as untouched by compromise as a newborn baby, living without any deliberate regard for this world or the next. You might almost say that his strange freedom from compromise involved a kind of unintelligence. In his many trades, he did not seem to work by reason or instinct, or simply by training. Nor did he seem to work through any mixture of the three, whether equal or unequal. He worked merely through a kind of deaf and dumb, spontaneous, literal process. He was purely a handler of things. If he had ever had a brain, it must have oozed early into the muscles of his fingers. He was like one of those unthinking but highly useful multum in parvo Sheffield contrivances. It looked like an ordinary pocketknife, though a little swollen. But it contained blades of various sizes, as well as screwdrivers, corkscrews, tweezers, awls, pens, rulers, nail files, and countersinks. So, if his superiors wanted to use the carpenter as a screwdriver, they only had to open that part of him, and the screw was fast. Or, if they wanted tweezers, they could pick him up by the legs, and there they were.

Yet, as previously hinted, this omnitooled, open-and-shut carpenter, was, after all, no mere machine of an automaton. If he did not have a common soul in him, he had a subtle something that somehow anomalously did its duty. What that was, whether essence of quicksilver, or a few drops of hartshorn, there is no telling. But there it was; and there it had abided for now some sixty years or more. And this it was, this same unaccountable, cunning life-principle in him; this it was, that kept him a great part of the time soliloquizing; but only like an unreasoning wheel, which also hummingly soliloquizes; or rather, his body was a sentry-box and this soliloquizer on guard there, and talking all the time to keep himself awake.

Yet, as hinted earlier, this all-purpose, open-and-shut carpenter was not just a machine, an automaton. If he did not have an ordinary soul, he had some subtle thing that somehow served in its place. No one could say what it was, whether an essence of quicksilver or a few drops of hartshorn. But it was there, and had been for some sixty years or more. This same mysterious, cunning life force kept him talking to himself much of the time. But he did so only like a mindless wheel, which also hums to itself. Or rather, his body was a sentry box, and the life force was a sentry on guard inside it. The sentry talked all the time to keep himself awake.