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白鲸|Moby Dick (The Whale)

4．卖人头的土著|CHAPTER 4. The Counterpane.

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 赫尔曼·麦尔维尔] 阅读：[12002]
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天微微亮时，我醒了，发现魁魁格的一只胳膊很亲昵地搭在我身上。如果别人看见了，肯定以为我是他妻子！

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他的胳膊上奇形怪状的花纹与身子底下这上百块碎布头缀成的被单很是相像，猛一下真让人看花了眼。

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只不过因为这胳膊有重量有温度，我才明白是魁魁格的胳膊搭在我身上，而不是床单的一角儿。

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噢，关于这搂紧人的胳膊，我小的时候就有过一次似梦似醒的可怕经验。

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那是有一年的6月21日下午的两点钟，也就是我们那儿漫长的白昼时间。因为我往烟囱上爬，我继母拉住了我的双腿。

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她命令我上楼去睡觉，这可是最让我难以忍受的惩罚了。

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我尽量慢地爬上四楼，尽量慢地脱掉衣服，无可奈何地钻进了被窝。

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16个小时以后我才能起床！天啊，听着外面的人声鸟语、车轮滚动声，我实在忍受不了了。穿上衣服、套上鞋奔下楼来，我跪在继母面前，恳求她开恩，打我骂我都行，不要让我现在就睡觉！

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可是，她既不打我也不骂我，只是命令我上楼去睡觉。

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我睁着眼躺了好几个小时后，陷入了一种痛苦的半睡半醒状态。

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许久，我感到刚才还阳光灿烂的一切突然都成了无边的黑暗，看不见也听不见，只是感到一只手放在我的手上。

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谁的手？悄无声息地来到我的床边攥着我的手的人是谁？

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恐惧笼罩了我的灵魂，我一动不敢动，好像已经僵了一百年！

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我一动不敢动，尽管我知道只要我稍微动一动，那幽灵的手就会消失。

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最后我也不明白它是怎么消失的，一想到它我就浑身颤抖不止，很多年都难以去掉回忆到它时的那种心惊肉跳的感觉。

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今天，我一觉醒来，看见、感觉到魁魁格的胳膊以后，其恐惧与吃惊的感觉，与儿时的那次感受颇为一致。

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我定了定神，想到昨天晚上的那一幕，心放宽了。

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我试着挪开这丈夫似的搂抱，但没有成功。

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“魁魁格！魁魁格！”

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回答我的是一阵鼾声。

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我翻了个身，试图挣脱他的胳膊，可脖子上的感觉就好像套着个马鞍子，挣不出去。

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那个吃人的土著还在酣睡，他的身边放着那把斧头烟斗，像个婴儿。

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想一想真是有点可笑，我怎么和一个吃人的土著还有一个莫明其妙的“婴儿”睡在这样一个陌生的房间里呢？

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“魁魁格，魁魁格，醒醒！”

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他这种夫妻式的搂抱让我十分恼火，我拼命地嚷叫起来。

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他动了动身子，嘴里嘟囔了几句什么鬼话，终于收回了胳膊，坐了起来。

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他揉了探眼睛，有点茫然地看着我，好像已经彻底忘了我是谁。

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我没吭声，凭他在几乎空白的大脑里搜寻着关于我的信号。我不错眼珠地看着他，已经没有什么可怕的了，我要好好看看他，到底是个什么样的人。

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他似乎已经想起我是谁了，一下子跳到地板上，冲我打着手势，意思是他要先穿衣服，而后我可以一个人在屋里慢慢穿衣服。

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噢，魁魁格，你的这个建议还是很文明的。野人的敏感一旦表现在礼仪上，是十分让人感动的。

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相比之下，倒显得我有点粗俗无礼了。我好奇地看着他穿衣服的一举动，这可是难得一见的景象啊，这样的人在这样的时候办着这样的事。

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他穿衣服的次序是自上而下的。先戴上那顶高高的獭皮帽子，然后，然后似乎应该穿上衣了，可是他没有，说明我刚才自上而下的判断是错误的。

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他找到他的靴子，戴着他高高的帽子钻到了床底下。从他吭哧吭哧的用力的声音来判断，是在穿靴子。

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真是奇怪，这种不能让别人看见自己穿靴子的礼仪，一定是一种由野蛮向文明过渡时期的礼仪。

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魁魁格既不是毛毛虫，也不是蝴蝶，他的进化还没有完成，是个尚未毕业的学生。因为纯粹的野蛮人是不在乎当不当着人的面穿靴子的，可一个文明的人也不会钻到床底下去穿靴子的。

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他从床底下爬出来时，帽子歪了，靴子好像也没穿好，走起来一瘸一拐的。

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窗户上没有窗帘，街道又很窄，对面的人是很容易看见这屋子里的一举一动的。

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魁魁格戴着帽子穿着靴子却光着身子，这太有点失礼仪了。

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我请他先穿上裤子再去洗脸。可魁魁格却并不洗脸，他只洗胸口、胳膊和手！

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他穿上了背心，把肥皂打在了脸上，看样子要刮胡子了。令人吃惊的是，他拽过那枝标枪来，退掉木把儿，抽出刀鞘，在靴子上来回蹭了几下，然后就三步两步奔到墙边，照着那面小镜子猛劲儿刮起脸来。

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噢，魁魁格啊，你可太让人吃惊了。不过想一想，也有他的道理。那标枪头儿是钢制的，锋刃犀科，作此用途，完全可以胜任。

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洗漱完毕，他套上他宽大的水手服，拎着他的标枪，志得意满地走出去了。

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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