The Bedspread

Upon waking next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost thought I had been his wife. The counterpane was of patchwork, full of odd little parti-coloured squares and triangles; and this arm of his tattooed all over with an interminable Cretan labyrinth of a figure, no two parts of which were of one precise shade—owing I suppose to his keeping his arm at sea unmethodically in sun and shade, his shirt sleeves irregularly rolled up at various times—this same arm of his, I say, looked for all the world like a strip of that same patchwork quilt. Indeed, partly lying on it as the arm did when I first awoke, I could hardly tell it from the quilt, they so blended their hues together; and it was only by the sense of weight and pressure that I could tell that Queequeg was hugging me.

When I woke around daybreak the next morning, I found Queequeg’s arm wrapped around me most lovingly and affectionately. You might almost have thought I was his wife. The quilt was patchwork, full of odd little squares and triangles in different colors. Queequeg’s arm was covered in tattoos forming an endless Cretan labyrinth, with no two parts exactly the same shade. I suppose that was because he had exposed his arm to sun and shade at sea without any pattern, rolling up his sleeves at different times. His arm, I say, looked exactly like a strip of that same patchwork quilt. Indeed, when I first woke, his arm lay partly on the quilt, and I could hardly tell them apart. Their colors blended so well that only the weight and pressure told me Queequeg was hugging me.

My sensations were strange. Let me try to explain them. When I was a child, I well remember a somewhat similar circumstance that befell me; whether it was a reality or a dream, I never could entirely settle. The circumstance was this. I had been cutting up some caper or other—I think it was trying to crawl up the chimney, as I had seen a little sweep do a few days previous; and my stepmother who, somehow or other, was all the time whipping me, or sending me to bed supperless,—my mother dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me off to bed, though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon of the 21st June, the longest day in the year in our hemisphere. I felt dreadfully. But there was no help for it, so up stairs I went to my little room in the third floor, undressed myself as slowly as possible so as to kill time, and with a bitter sigh got between the sheets.

My feelings were strange. Let me try to explain them. I clearly remember something somewhat similar that happened when I was a child. I could never quite decide whether it was real or a dream. Here is what happened. I had been up to some mischief. I think I was trying to crawl up the chimney, having seen a young chimney sweep do it a few days earlier. My stepmother was always whipping me or sending me to bed without supper, for one reason or another. My mother dragged me out of the chimney by my legs and sent me straight to bed. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon on June 21, the longest day of the year in our hemisphere. I felt dreadful. But there was nothing I could do about it. So I went upstairs to my little room on the third floor. I undressed as slowly as possible to pass the time, then climbed between the sheets with a bitter sigh.

I lay there dismally calculating that sixteen entire hours must elapse before I could hope for a resurrection. Sixteen hours in bed! the small of my back ached to think of it. And it was so light too; the sun shining in at the window, and a great rattling of coaches in the streets, and the sound of gay voices all over the house. I felt worse and worse—at last I got up, dressed, and softly going down in my stockinged feet, sought out my stepmother, and suddenly threw myself at her feet, beseeching her as a particular favour to give me a good slippering for my misbehaviour; anything indeed but condemning me to lie abed such an unendurable length of time. But she was the best and most conscientious of stepmothers, and back I had to go to my room. For several hours I lay there broad awake, feeling a great deal worse than I have ever done since, even from the greatest subsequent misfortunes. At last I must have fallen into a troubled nightmare of a doze; and slowly waking from it—half steeped in dreams—I opened my eyes, and the before sun-lit room was now wrapped in outer darkness. Instantly I felt a shock running through all my frame; nothing was to be seen, and nothing was to be heard; but a supernatural hand seemed placed in mine. My arm hung over the counterpane, and the nameless, unimaginable, silent form or phantom, to which the hand belonged, seemed closely seated by my bed-side. For what seemed ages piled on ages, I lay there, frozen with the most awful fears, not daring to drag away my hand; yet ever thinking that if I could but stir it one single inch, the horrid spell would be broken. I knew not how this consciousness at last glided away from me; but waking in the morning, I shudderingly remembered it all, and for days and weeks and months afterwards I lost myself in confounding attempts to explain the mystery. Nay, to this very hour, I often puzzle myself with it.

I lay there gloomily calculating that sixteen whole hours would pass before I could hope to rise again. Sixteen hours in bed! The small of my back ached at the thought. And it was so light, too. The sun was shining through the window, coaches rattled loudly in the streets, and cheerful voices sounded throughout the house. I felt worse and worse. At last I got up, dressed, and quietly went downstairs in my stocking feet. I found my stepmother and suddenly threw myself at her feet. I begged her, as a special favor, to give me a good spanking with a slipper for my misbehavior. Anything, really, but being condemned to lie in bed for such an unbearable length of time. But she was the best and most conscientious of stepmothers, and I had to go back to my room. For several hours I lay there wide awake, feeling far worse than I ever have since, even in my greatest later misfortunes. At last I must have fallen into a troubled, nightmarish sleep. I woke slowly, still half lost in dreams, and opened my eyes. The room, once filled with sunlight, was now wrapped in complete darkness. Instantly, I felt a shock run through my whole body. I could see and hear nothing, but a supernatural hand seemed to be resting in mine. My arm hung over the bedspread. The nameless, unimaginable, silent form or phantom to which the hand belonged seemed to be sitting close beside my bed. For what seemed like ages piled upon ages, I lay there, frozen with the most terrible fear. I did not dare pull my hand away. Yet I kept thinking that if I could move it just one inch, the horrible spell would be broken. I do not know how this awareness finally slipped away from me. But when I woke in the morning, I remembered it all with a shudder. For days, weeks, and months afterward, I lost myself in bewildering attempts to explain the mystery. Even to this day, I often puzzle over it.

Now, take away the awful fear, and my sensations at feeling the supernatural hand in mine were very similar, in their 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.

Now, if I set aside the terrible fear, the strange feeling of that supernatural hand in mine was much like what I felt on waking to find Queequeg’s pagan arm around me. But at last, all the events of the previous night came back to me, one by one, as sober reality. Then I could think only of the comical predicament I was in. I tried to move his arm and free myself from his bridegroom’s embrace. But even in his sleep, he hugged me tightly, as if nothing but death could part us. I tried to wake him. “Queequeg!” But his only answer was a snore. Then I rolled over, my neck feeling as if it were caught in a horse collar, and suddenly felt a slight scratch. I threw aside the bedcover and saw the tomahawk sleeping beside the savage, like a hatchet-faced baby. A fine mess, I thought, lying in bed in broad daylight in a strange house, with a cannibal and a tomahawk! “Queequeg! For goodness’ sake, Queequeg, wake up!” At last, after much wriggling and constant, loud protests about how improper it was to hug another man like a husband, I managed to get a grunt out of him. Soon he pulled back his arm and shook himself all over, like a Newfoundland dog just out of the water. Then he sat up in bed, stiff as a stick, looking at me and rubbing his eyes. He seemed not to remember quite how I had come to be there, though a faint awareness that he knew something about me seemed to be slowly dawning on him. Meanwhile, I lay quietly watching him. I no longer had any serious fears, and I was determined to observe such a curious creature closely. At last, he seemed to make up his mind about the character of his bedfellow and more or less accept my presence. He jumped onto the floor and, with signs and sounds, made me understand that he would dress first if I liked. Then he would leave me the whole room to dress in by myself. I thought, Queequeg, under the circumstances, that is a very civilized offer. But the truth is, say what you will, these savages have an innate sense of tact. It is amazing how naturally polite they are. I give Queequeg this particular compliment because he treated me with such courtesy and consideration, while I was being very rude. I stared at him from the bed, watching everything he did as he dressed. For the moment, my curiosity got the better of my manners. Still, you don’t see a man like Queequeg every day, and he and his ways were well worth such unusual attention.

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.

He began dressing at the top by putting on his beaver hat, which was very tall, by the way. Then, still without his trousers, he went looking for his boots. For the life of me, I cannot say why he did it. But next he squeezed himself under the bed, boots in hand and hat on his head. From the violent gasps and grunts that followed, I gathered he was hard at work putting on his boots. Yet no rule of propriety I have ever heard of requires a man to put on his boots in private. But Queequeg, you see, was a creature in transition, neither caterpillar nor butterfly. He was just civilized enough to display his outlandishness in the strangest possible ways. His education was not yet complete. He was an undergraduate. If he had not been civilized to some degree, he probably would not have bothered with boots at all. But if he had not still been a savage, he would never have dreamed of putting them on under the bed. At last, he emerged with his hat badly dented and crushed down over his eyes. He began creaking and limping around the room. He was not very used to boots, and his damp, wrinkled cowhide pair probably had not been made to order. They seemed to pinch and torment him when he first put them on that bitterly 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.

I noticed there were no curtains on the window. The street was very narrow, so anyone in the house opposite could see straight into the room. I also became increasingly aware of how indecent Queequeg looked, wandering around in little more than his hat and boots. So I asked him as best I could to get dressed a little faster, and especially to put on his trousers as soon as possible. He did, and then he began to wash. At that hour of the morning, any Christian would have washed his face. But to my amazement, Queequeg washed only his chest, arms, and hands. He then put on his waistcoat, picked up a piece of hard soap from the table that served as a washstand, dipped it in water, and began lathering his face. I watched to see where he kept his razor. And lo and behold, he took the harpoon from the corner of the bed, pulled out its long wooden shaft, and removed the cover from its head. He sharpened the head a little on his boot, strode up to the small mirror on the wall, and began vigorously scraping, or rather harpooning, his cheeks. I thought, Queequeg, that’s using Rogers’s best cutlery with a vengeance. Later, I was less surprised by his shaving method. I learned that harpoon heads are made of fine steel and that their long, straight edges are always kept exceedingly sharp.

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.

He soon finished dressing and proudly marched out of the room. He was wrapped in his great pilot jacket and carried his harpoon like a marshal’s baton.