The Hyena

There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody’s expense but his own. However, nothing dispirits, and nothing seems worth while disputing. He bolts down all events, all creeds, and beliefs, and persuasions, all hard things visible and invisible, never mind how knobby; as an ostrich of potent digestion gobbles down bullets and gun flints. And as for small difficulties and worryings, prospects of sudden disaster, peril of life and limb; all these, and death itself, seem to him only sly, good-natured hits, and jolly punches in the side bestowed by the unseen and unaccountable old joker. That odd sort of wayward mood I am speaking of, comes over a man only in some time of extreme tribulation; it comes in the very midst of his earnestness, so that what just before might have seemed to him a thing most momentous, now seems but a part of the general joke. There is nothing like the perils of whaling to breed this free and easy sort of genial, desperado philosophy; and with it I now regarded this whole voyage of the Pequod, and the great White Whale its object.

There are strange times in this odd mixture we call life when a man sees the whole universe as a vast practical joke. He only dimly understands the humor, though, and more than suspects that the joke is entirely at his own expense. Even so, nothing discourages him, and nothing seems worth arguing about. He swallows every event, every creed, belief, and conviction, and every hard thing, visible or invisible, no matter how lumpy. He takes them all in like an ostrich with a powerful stomach gobbling bullets and gunflints. As for small difficulties and worries, the prospect of sudden disaster, or danger to life and limb, all of them seem like sly, good-natured jabs. Even death seems like a friendly punch in the ribs from the unseen, mysterious old joker. This odd, unpredictable mood comes over a man only during extreme suffering. It comes in the middle of his deepest seriousness. As a result, what seemed most important to him just before now seems only part of the general joke. Nothing breeds this easygoing, cheerful philosophy of a desperado like the dangers of whaling. With that philosophy, I now viewed the whole voyage of the Pequod and its goal, the great White Whale.

“Queequeg,” said I, when they had dragged me, the last man, to the deck, and I was still shaking myself in my jacket to fling off the water; “Queequeg, my fine friend, does this sort of thing often happen?” Without much emotion, though soaked through just like me, he gave me to understand that such things did often happen.

They dragged me onto the deck last. I was still shaking the water from my jacket when I spoke. “Queequeg, my fine friend, does this sort of thing happen often?” Though he was soaked through just like me, he showed little emotion as he told me that it did happen often.

“Mr. Stubb,” said I, turning to that worthy, who, buttoned up in his oil-jacket, was now calmly smoking his pipe in the rain; “Mr. Stubb, I think I have heard you say that of all whalemen you ever met, our chief mate, Mr. Starbuck, is by far the most careful and prudent. I suppose then, that going plump on a flying whale with your sail set in a foggy squall is the height of a whaleman’s discretion?”

“Mr. Stubb,” I said, turning to him. He was buttoned up in his oilskin jacket, calmly smoking his pipe in the rain. “Mr. Stubb, I think I’ve heard you say that our chief mate, Mr. Starbuck, is by far the most careful and cautious whaler you’ve ever met. So I suppose sailing straight at a fleeing whale in a foggy squall is the height of caution for a whaler?”

“Certain. I’ve lowered for whales from a leaking ship in a gale off Cape Horn.”

“Of course. I’ve lowered a boat to hunt whales from a leaking ship in a gale off Cape Horn.”

“Mr. Flask,” said I, turning to little King-Post, who was standing close by; “you are experienced in these things, and I am not. Will you tell me whether it is an unalterable law in this fishery, Mr. Flask, for an oarsman to break his own back pulling himself back-foremost into death’s jaws?”

“Mr. Flask,” I said, turning to little King-Post, who was standing nearby, “you have experience with whaling, and I don’t. Tell me, Mr. Flask, is it an unchangeable rule in whaling that an oarsman must break his own back rowing backward into the jaws of death?”

“Can’t you twist that smaller?” said Flask. “Yes, that’s the law. I should like to see a boat’s crew backing water up to a whale face foremost. Ha, ha! the whale would give them squint for squint, mind that!”

“Can’t you make that any smaller?” said Flask. “Yes, that’s the law. I’d like to see a boat’s crew row backward toward a whale, facing it as they go. Ha, ha! The whale would squint right back at them, mind you!”

Here then, from three impartial witnesses, I had a deliberate statement of the entire case. Considering, therefore, that squalls and capsizings in the water and consequent bivouacks on the deep, were matters of common occurrence in this kind of life; considering that at the superlatively critical instant of going on to the whale I must resign my life into the hands of him who steered the boat—oftentimes a fellow who at that very moment is in his impetuousness upon the point of scuttling the craft with his own frantic stampings; considering that the particular disaster to our own particular boat was chiefly to be imputed to Starbuck’s driving on to his whale almost in the teeth of a squall, and considering that Starbuck, notwithstanding, was famous for his great heedfulness in the fishery; considering that I belonged to this uncommonly prudent Starbuck’s boat; and finally considering in what a devil’s chase I was implicated, touching the White Whale: taking all things together, I say, I thought I might as well go below and make a rough draft of my will. “Queequeg,” said I, “come along, you shall be my lawyer, executor, and legatee.”

So, from three impartial witnesses, I had a careful account of the whole affair. Squalls, capsized boats, and the resulting nights spent on the open sea were common in this life. At the most critical moment, when approaching a whale, I had to trust my life to the man steering the boat. Often, in his excitement, that same man was nearly stamping through the bottom of the boat. The disaster to our own boat was mostly due to Starbuck’s pursuit of his whale almost into a squall. Yet Starbuck was famous for his great caution in whaling, and I belonged to this unusually prudent Starbuck’s boat. Finally, I was involved in a devil’s chase after the White Whale. Taking all of this together, I thought I might as well go below and draft my will. “Queequeg,” I said, “come along, you shall be my lawyer, executor, and heir.”

It may seem strange that of all men sailors should be tinkering at their last wills and testaments, but there are no people in the world more fond of that diversion. This was the fourth time in my nautical life that I had done the same thing. After the ceremony was concluded upon the present occasion, I felt all the easier; a stone was rolled away from my heart. Besides, all the days I should now live would be as good as the days that Lazarus lived after his resurrection; a supplementary clean gain of so many months or weeks as the case might be. I survived myself; my death and burial were locked up in my chest. I looked round me tranquilly and contentedly, like a quiet ghost with a clean conscience sitting inside the bars of a snug family vault.

It may seem strange that sailors, of all people, should spend time drawing up their last wills and testaments. But no people in the world are fonder of that pastime. This was the fourth time I had done it during my life at sea. When the ceremony was over this time, I felt much more at ease. A stone had been rolled off my heart. Besides, all the days I lived from then on would be as good as Lazarus’s days after his resurrection. They would be extra months or weeks, as the case might be, gained for nothing. I had survived myself. My death and burial were locked up in my chest. I looked around calmly and contentedly, like a quiet ghost with a clear conscience sitting behind the bars of a snug family vault.

Now then, thought I, unconsciously rolling up the sleeves of my frock, here goes for a cool, collected dive at death and destruction, and the devil fetch the hindmost.

Now then, I thought, rolling up my coat sleeves without realizing it, here goes. I'll dive calmly into death and destruction, and the devil can take whoever falls behind.