บทที่ บทที่ 130 · The Hat.

And now that at the proper time and place, after so long and wide a

preliminary cruise, Ahab,—all other whaling waters swept—seemed to have

chased his foe into an ocean-fold, to slay him the more securely there;

now, that he found himself hard by the very latitude and longitude

where his tormenting wound had been inflicted; now that a vessel had

been spoken which on the very day preceding had actually encountered

Moby Dick;—and now that all his successive meetings with various ships

contrastingly concurred to show the demoniac indifference with which

the white whale tore his hunters, whether sinning or sinned against;

now it was that there lurked a something in the old man’s eyes, which

it was hardly sufferable for feeble souls to see. As the unsetting

polar star, which through the livelong, arctic, six months’ night

sustains its piercing, steady, central gaze; so Ahab’s purpose now

fixedly gleamed down upon the constant midnight of the gloomy crew. It

domineered above them so, that all their bodings, doubts, misgivings,

fears, were fain to hide beneath their souls, and not sprout forth a

single spear or leaf.

In this foreshadowing interval too, all humor, forced or natural,

vanished. Stubb no more strove to raise a smile; Starbuck no more

strove to check one. Alike, joy and sorrow, hope and fear, seemed

ground to finest dust, and powdered, for the time, in the clamped

mortar of Ahab’s iron soul. Like machines, they dumbly moved about the

deck, ever conscious that the old man’s despot eye was on them.

But did you deeply scan him in his more secret confidential hours; when

he thought no glance but one was on him; then you would have seen that

even as Ahab’s eyes so awed the crew’s, the inscrutable Parsee’s glance

awed his; or somehow, at least, in some wild way, at times affected it.

Such an added, gliding strangeness began to invest the thin Fedallah

now; such ceaseless shudderings shook him; that the men looked dubious

at him; half uncertain, as it seemed, whether indeed he were a mortal

substance, or else a tremulous shadow cast upon the deck by some unseen

being’s body. And that shadow was always hovering there. For not by

night, even, had Fedallah ever certainly been known to slumber, or go

below. He would stand still for hours: but never sat or leaned; his wan

but wondrous eyes did plainly say—We two watchmen never rest.

Nor, at any time, by night or day could the mariners now step upon the

deck, unless Ahab was before them; either standing in his pivot-hole,

or exactly pacing the planks between two undeviating limits,—the

main-mast and the mizen; or else they saw him standing in the

cabin-scuttle,—his living foot advanced upon the deck, as if to step;

his hat slouched heavily over his eyes; so that however motionless he

stood, however the days and nights were added on, that he had not swung

in his hammock; yet hidden beneath that slouching hat, they could never

tell unerringly whether, for all this, his eyes were really closed at

times; or whether he was still intently scanning them; no matter,

though he stood so in the scuttle for a whole hour on the stretch, and

the unheeded night-damp gathered in beads of dew upon that stone-carved

coat and hat. The clothes that the night had wet, the next day’s

sunshine dried upon him; and so, day after day, and night after night;

he went no more beneath the planks; whatever he wanted from the cabin

that thing he sent for.

He ate in the same open air; that is, his two only meals,—breakfast and

dinner: supper he never touched; nor reaped his beard; which darkly

grew all gnarled, as unearthed roots of trees blown over, which still

grow idly on at naked base, though perished in the upper verdure. But

though his whole life was now become one watch on deck; and though the

Parsee’s mystic watch was without intermission as his own; yet these

two never seemed to speak—one man to the other—unless at long intervals

some passing unmomentous matter made it necessary. Though such a potent

spell seemed secretly to join the twain; openly, and to the awe-struck

crew, they seemed pole-like asunder. If by day they chanced to speak

one word; by night, dumb men were both, so far as concerned the

slightest verbal interchange. At times, for longest hours, without a

single hail, they stood far parted in the starlight; Ahab in his

scuttle, the Parsee by the mainmast; but still fixedly gazing upon each

other; as if in the Parsee Ahab saw his forethrown shadow, in Ahab the

Parsee his abandoned substance.

And yet, somehow, did Ahab—in his own proper self, as daily, hourly,

and every instant, commandingly revealed to his subordinates,—Ahab

seemed an independent lord; the Parsee but his slave. Still again both

seemed yoked together, and an unseen tyrant driving them; the lean

shade siding the solid rib. For be this Parsee what he may, all rib and

keel was solid Ahab.

At the first faintest glimmering of the dawn, his iron voice was heard

from aft,—“Man the mast-heads!”—and all through the day, till after

sunset and after twilight, the same voice every hour, at the striking

of the helmsman’s bell, was heard—“What d’ye see?—sharp! sharp!”

But when three or four days had slided by, after meeting the

children-seeking Rachel; and no spout had yet been seen; the monomaniac

old man seemed distrustful of his crew’s fidelity; at least, of nearly

all except the Pagan harpooneers; he seemed to doubt, even, whether

Stubb and Flask might not willingly overlook the sight he sought. But

if these suspicions were really his, he sagaciously refrained from

verbally expressing them, however his actions might seem to hint them.

“I will have the first sight of the whale myself,”—he said. “Aye! Ahab

must have the doubloon!” and with his own hands he rigged a nest of

basketed bowlines; and sending a hand aloft, with a single sheaved

block, to secure to the main-mast head, he received the two ends of the

downward-reeved rope; and attaching one to his basket prepared a pin

for the other end, in order to fasten it at the rail. This done, with

that end yet in his hand and standing beside the pin, he looked round

upon his crew, sweeping from one to the other; pausing his glance long

upon Daggoo, Queequeg, Tashtego; but shunning Fedallah; and then

settling his firm relying eye upon the chief mate, said,—“Take the

rope, sir—I give it into thy hands, Starbuck.” Then arranging his

person in the basket, he gave the word for them to hoist him to his

perch, Starbuck being the one who secured the rope at last; and

afterwards stood near it. And thus, with one hand clinging round the

royal mast, Ahab gazed abroad upon the sea for miles and miles,—ahead,

astern, this side, and that,—within the wide expanded circle commanded

at so great a height.

When in working with his hands at some lofty almost isolated place in

the rigging, which chances to afford no foothold, the sailor at sea is

hoisted up to that spot, and sustained there by the rope; under these

circumstances, its fastened end on deck is always given in strict

charge to some one man who has the special watch of it. Because in such

a wilderness of running rigging, whose various different relations

aloft cannot always be infallibly discerned by what is seen of them at

the deck; and when the deck-ends of these ropes are being every few

minutes cast down from the fastenings, it would be but a natural

fatality, if, unprovided with a constant watchman, the hoisted sailor

should by some carelessness of the crew be cast adrift and fall all

swooping to the sea. So Ahab’s proceedings in this matter were not

unusual; the only strange thing about them seemed to be, that Starbuck,

almost the one only man who had ever ventured to oppose him with

anything in the slightest degree approaching to decision—one of those

too, whose faithfulness on the look-out he had seemed to doubt

somewhat;—it was strange, that this was the very man he should select

for his watchman; freely giving his whole life into such an otherwise

distrusted person’s hands.

Now, the first time Ahab was perched aloft; ere he had been there ten

minutes; one of those red-billed savage sea-hawks which so often fly

incommodiously close round the manned mast-heads of whalemen in these

latitudes; one of these birds came wheeling and screaming round his

head in a maze of untrackably swift circlings. Then it darted a

thousand feet straight up into the air; then spiralized downwards, and

went eddying again round his head.

But with his gaze fixed upon the dim and distant horizon, Ahab seemed

not to mark this wild bird; nor, indeed, would any one else have marked

it much, it being no uncommon circumstance; only now almost the least

heedful eye seemed to see some sort of cunning meaning in almost every

sight.

“Your hat, your hat, sir!” suddenly cried the Sicilian seaman, who

being posted at the mizen-mast-head, stood directly behind Ahab, though

somewhat lower than his level, and with a deep gulf of air dividing

them.

But already the sable wing was before the old man’s eyes; the long

hooked bill at his head: with a scream, the black hawk darted away with

his prize.

An eagle flew thrice round Tarquin’s head, removing his cap to replace

it, and thereupon Tanaquil, his wife, declared that Tarquin would be

king of Rome. But only by the replacing of the cap was that omen

accounted good. Ahab’s hat was never restored; the wild hawk flew on

and on with it; far in advance of the prow: and at last disappeared;

while from the point of that disappearance, a minute black spot was

dimly discerned, falling from that vast height into the sea.