The Mat Maker

It was a cloudy, sultry afternoon; the seamen were lazily lounging about the decks, or vacantly gazing over into the lead-coloured waters. Queequeg and I were mildly employed weaving what is called a sword-mat, for an additional lashing to our boat. So still and subdued and yet somehow preluding was all the scene, and such an incantation of reverie lurked in the air, that each silent sailor seemed resolved into his own invisible self.

It was a cloudy, humid afternoon. The sailors lounged lazily on deck or stared blankly into the lead-colored water. Queequeg and I were quietly weaving a sword-mat to give our boat an extra lashing. The whole scene was still and subdued, yet somehow it felt like a prelude. A spell of daydreaming seemed to hang in the air. Together, these made each silent sailor seem to fade into his own invisible self.

I was the attendant or page of Queequeg, while busy at the mat. As I kept passing and repassing the filling or woof of marline between the long yarns of the warp, using my own hand for the shuttle, and as Queequeg, standing sideways, ever and anon slid his heavy oaken sword between the threads, and idly looking off upon the water, carelessly and unthinkingly drove home every yarn: I say so strange a dreaminess did there then reign all over the ship and all over the sea, only broken by the intermitting dull sound of the sword, that it seemed as if this were the Loom of Time, and I myself were a shuttle mechanically weaving and weaving away at the Fates. There lay the fixed threads of the warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging vibration, and that vibration merely enough to admit of the crosswise interblending of other threads with its own. This warp seemed necessity; and here, thought I, with my own hand I ply my own shuttle and weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads. Meantime, Queequeg’s impulsive, indifferent sword, sometimes hitting the woof slantingly, or crookedly, or strongly, or weakly, as the case might be; and by this difference in the concluding blow producing a corresponding contrast in the final aspect of the completed fabric; this savage’s sword, thought I, which thus finally shapes and fashions both warp and woof; this easy, indifferent sword must be chance—aye, chance, free will, and necessity—nowise incompatible—all interweavingly working together. The straight warp of necessity, not to be swerved from its ultimate course—its every alternating vibration, indeed, only tending to that; free will still free to ply her shuttle between given threads; and chance, though restrained in its play within the right lines of necessity, and sideways in its motions directed by free will, though thus prescribed to by both, chance by turns rules either, and has the last featuring blow at events.

I was Queequeg’s attendant, or page, while he worked on the mat. I passed the marline filling, or woof, back and forth between the long yarns of the warp, using my hand as a shuttle. Queequeg stood sideways and now and then slid his heavy oak sword between the threads. Looking idly out over the water, he carelessly and unthinkingly drove each yarn into place. A strange dreaminess settled over the whole ship and the whole sea. Only the occasional dull sound of the sword broke it. It seemed as if this were the Loom of Time, and I was a shuttle mechanically weaving away at the Fates. The fixed threads of the warp lay there, moving in only one way, in the same unchanging vibration again and again. That movement was just enough to let other threads cross and interweave with them. The warp seemed to be necessity. And here, I thought, I work my own shuttle with my own hand, weaving my destiny into these unchangeable threads. Meanwhile, Queequeg’s sword moved on impulse and with indifference. It struck the woof at an angle, or crookedly, or strongly, or weakly, as the case might be. The final blow varied, and each variation gave the finished fabric a different appearance. This savage’s sword, I thought, finally shapes both warp and woof. This easy, indifferent sword must be chance. Yes, chance, free will, and necessity are not incompatible. They all work together, interweaving. The straight warp of necessity cannot be turned from its final course. Indeed, every back and forth movement only carries it toward that end. Free will remains free to work her shuttle between the given threads. Chance is confined within the straight lines of necessity, and free will directs its sideways movements. Yet, though both set limits on chance, it takes turns ruling each of them. Chance gives events the final blow that shapes them.

Thus we were weaving and weaving away when I started at a sound so strange, long drawn, and musically wild and unearthly, that the ball of free will dropped from my hand, and I stood gazing up at the clouds whence that voice dropped like a wing. High aloft in the cross-trees was that mad Gay-Header, Tashtego. His body was reaching eagerly forward, his hand stretched out like a wand, and at brief sudden intervals he continued his cries. To be sure the same sound was that very moment perhaps being heard all over the seas, from hundreds of whalemen’s look-outs perched as high in the air; but from few of those lungs could that accustomed old cry have derived such a marvellous cadence as from Tashtego the Indian’s.

We were weaving away when a sound startled me. It was so strange, so long drawn out, so wildly musical and unearthly that the ball of free will dropped from my hand. I stood gazing up at the clouds, from which the voice had dropped like a wing. High up in the cross-trees was that mad Gay-Header, Tashtego. His body leaned eagerly forward, his hand stretched out like a wand. He continued to cry out at brief, sudden intervals. Of course, the same sound was perhaps being heard all over the seas at that very moment. It came from hundreds of whaling lookouts perched just as high in the air. But few of them could have given that familiar old cry such a marvelous cadence as Tashtego the Indian did.

As he stood hovering over you half suspended in air, so wildly and eagerly peering towards the horizon, you would have thought him some prophet or seer beholding the shadows of Fate, and by those wild cries announcing their coming.

He hovered over you, half suspended in the air, staring wildly and eagerly toward the horizon. You might have thought he was a prophet or seer, watching the shadows of Fate and announcing their arrival with wild cries.

“There she blows! there! there! there! she blows! she blows!”

“There she spouts! There! There! There! She spouts! She spouts!”

“Where-away?”

“In what direction?”

“On the lee-beam, about two miles off! a school of them!”

“Off the downwind side, about two miles away! A school of them!”

Instantly all was commotion.

Suddenly, everything was in an uproar.

The Sperm Whale blows as a clock ticks, with the same undeviating and reliable uniformity. And thereby whalemen distinguish this fish from other tribes of his genus.

The Sperm Whale blows as steadily and reliably as a clock ticks. Whalers use this steady blowing to distinguish it from other kinds of whales.

“There go flukes!” was now the cry from Tashtego; and the whales disappeared.

“There go their tails!” Tashtego cried, and the whales disappeared.

“Quick, steward!” cried Ahab. “Time! time!”

“Quick, steward!” Ahab cried. “Time! Time!”

Dough-Boy hurried below, glanced at the watch, and reported the exact minute to Ahab.

Dough-Boy hurried below deck, checked the watch, and told Ahab the exact time.

The ship was now kept away from the wind, and she went gently rolling before it. Tashtego reporting that the whales had gone down heading to leeward, we confidently looked to see them again directly in advance of our bows. For that singular craft at times evinced by the Sperm Whale when, sounding with his head in one direction, he nevertheless, while concealed beneath the surface, mills round, and swiftly swims off in the opposite quarter—this deceitfulness of his could not now be in action; for there was no reason to suppose that the fish seen by Tashtego had been in any way alarmed, or indeed knew at all of our vicinity. One of the men selected for shipkeepers—that is, those not appointed to the boats, by this time relieved the Indian at the main-mast head. The sailors at the fore and mizzen had come down; the line tubs were fixed in their places; the cranes were thrust out; the mainyard was backed, and the three boats swung over the sea like three samphire baskets over high cliffs. Outside of the bulwarks their eager crews with one hand clung to the rail, while one foot was expectantly poised on the gunwale. So look the long line of man-of-war’s men about to throw themselves on board an enemy’s ship.

The ship now turned away from the wind and rolled gently as it sailed before it. Tashtego reported that the whales had gone down heading away from the wind. We therefore expected to see them again directly ahead of our bows. Sperm Whales sometimes show a particular kind of cunning. They dive with their heads pointing one way, then turn underwater and swim swiftly off in the opposite direction. But the whales could not be using that trick now. There was no reason to think the whales Tashtego had seen were alarmed or even knew we were nearby. One of the men chosen as shipkeepers had by now relieved the Indian at the top of the mainmast. The shipkeepers were the men not assigned to the boats. The sailors at the foremast and mizzenmast had come down. The line tubs were in place, the cranes were thrust out, and the mainyard was backed. The three boats swung over the sea like three baskets of samphire hanging over high cliffs. Their eager crews stood outside the bulwarks, each man clinging to the rail with one hand and holding one foot ready on the gunwale. They looked like a long line of warship sailors about to leap aboard an enemy ship.

But at this critical instant a sudden exclamation was heard that took every eye from the whale. With a start all glared at dark Ahab, who was surrounded by five dusky phantoms that seemed fresh formed out of air.

But at that critical moment, a sudden cry drew everyone's eyes away from the whale. Startled, they all stared at dark Ahab. He was surrounded by five shadowy figures that seemed to have appeared out of thin air.