Chapter 10 A Bosom Friend
Chapter 10 A Bosom Friend
Returning to the Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there quite alone. He was sitting on a bench before the fire, with his feet on the stove hearth, and in one hand was holding close up to his face that little negro idol of his; peering hard into its face, and with a jack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to himself in his heathenish way.
But being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going to the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap began counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth page—as I fancied—stopping a moment, looking vacantly around him, and giving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He would then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number one each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was only by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his astonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.
With much interest I sat watching him. Savage though he was, and hideously marred about the face—at least to my taste—his countenance yet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils.
Whilst I was thus closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be looking out at the storm from the casement, he never heeded my presence, never troubled himself with so much as a single glance; but appeared wholly occupied with counting the pages of the marvellous book. I had noticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little, with the other seamen in the inn. All this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there was something almost sublime in it. He seemed entirely at his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship; always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving.
As I sat there in that now lonely room; the fire burning low, in that mild stage when, after its first intensity has warmed the air, it then only glows to be looked at; the storm booming without in solemn swells; I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This soothing savage had redeemed it. There he sat, his very indifference speaking a nature in which there lurked no civilized hypocrisies and bland deceits. Wild he was; a very sight of sights to see; yet I began to feel myself mysteriously drawn towards him. And those same things that would have repelled most others, they were the very magnets that thus drew me.
He seemed to take to me
quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; he pressed his forehead against
mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married;
meaning, in his country’s phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly
die for me, if need should be.
He made me a present of his embalmed head; took out his enormous tobacco wallet, and groping under the tobacco, drew out some thirty dollars in silver; then spreading them on the table, and mechanically dividing them into two equal portions, pushed one of them towards me, and said it was mine. I was going to remonstrate; but he silenced me by pouring them into my trowsers’ pockets. I let them stay. He then went about his evening prayers, took out his idol, and seemed anxious for me to join him.
I was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible Presbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in worshipping his piece of wood? But what is worship? thought I. Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and earth—pagans and all included—can possibly be jealous of an insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship?—to do the will of God—that is worship. And what is the will of God?—to do to my fellow man what I would have my fellow man to do to me—that is the will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolator. So I helped prop up the innocent little idol; salamed before him twice or thrice; kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world.
Link to Chapter 11 Nightgown.
Abridger Notes
Towards the end of this chapter there are a fair number of references to God, as there was (even more so) in the previous chapter, The Sermon -- unsurprisingly. I wanted to preserve the sentiments expressed at Ishmael’s lower layer wonderings of idolatry and God, because I resonated with them. Many years ago, when talking to a chaplain of the church I regularly attended, I shared that I was concerned that I was hypocritical, and perhaps more importantly that I felt somewhat unique in that hypocriticality. I felt that I was attending the church more for the fellowship, rather than belief in God, and I was particularly skeptical of the trinitarian concept, but I still believed in the sacred, something greater than myself, to include connectedness between human beings, and with the rest of the natural world.
With respect to The Trinity, he said that while Christian denominations would tell you that the Father (Creator), Son (Redeemer), and Holy Spirit are equal in importance, and most Christians might tell you this is the case if asked, most Christians, in his experience, also talk and act day to day as though they hold one aspect of the Trinity as primary. Not surprisingly, many would talk and act as though Christ, Jesus, were primary. Still not surprisingly, many would talk and act as though the Creator was primary. Some, perhaps few, would talk and act as though the Holy Spirit were primary. He told me that it sounded to him like I was a ‘Holy Spirit Christian.’ I felt better about my participation in that church, and I became a lay leader in it for several years (a Stephen Leader). I think that Ishmael might be a Holy Ghost Christian too, even if those around him seem more ‘Father-primary Christians’ to my mind. At some point I will probably count up the number of references to ‘God’ and ‘Christ’ in Moby Dick, and look up the scholarship on these questions.
< added February 6, 2025 I've been reading the Modern Critical Interpretations series, this on "Herman Melville's Moby Dick" (Harold Bloom, Editor, 1986), and it starts informing my abridger notes with Chapter 22, Merry Christmas, and causing back-editing, as in this case. One of the commentators, Charles Olson, in "Call Me Ishmael," reprinted from 1947, talks about the Christian Trinity:
"Of necessity, from Ahab's world, both Christ and the Holy Ghost are absent. ... the name of Christ is uttered but once in the book and then it is torn from Starbuck, the only possible man to use it, at a moment of anguish, the night before the fatal third day of the chase" in chapter 134 (quote from p. 27 of Bloom). Returning to this theme later, when all done.>
Changing focus now:
The British editor made a modest deletion in the American original to reduce the possible homosexual implications, but it seemed like a small dent if one had a mind to think that. In this abridgment, I deleted Ishmael’s observations on Queequeg’s physical appearance, including a comparison to George Washington, behavioral observations, a shared smoke, and of shared feelings of affection, including this closing paragraph.
“How
it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures
between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their
souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times
till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg—a
cosy, loving pair.”
Rather, I closed the abridged chapter with an edit of the previous paragraph, which I think leaves room for interpreting their relationship as one is inclined.
“…and
that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and
all the world. But we did not go to sleep without some little chat.”
The MEL site has considerable commentary on their relationship, including this:
“While men often shared beds for convenience, then as today, these two also have a “homosocial” bond of affection that, though typical in western cultures, may specifically reflect the Polynesian idea and practice of aikāne. According to Henry Hughes, although the word ai (sexual intercourse) + kāne (man) originally connoted male-male sexuality, its meaning evolved, and even Polynesians used it to mean close, non-sexual male-male friendships.”
I hope and expect that there is enough left to convey the shared affection.
Multimedia Chapter 10 A Bosom Friend
Original Chapter 10 A
Bosom Friend with Deletions
Returning to the
Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there quite alone; he having
left the Chapel before the benediction some time. He was sitting on a bench
before the fire, with his feet on the stove hearth, and in one hand was holding
close up to his face that little negro idol of his; peering hard into its face,
and with a jack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to
himself in his heathenish way.
But being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going to the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap began counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth page—as I fancied—stopping a moment, looking vacantly around him, and giving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He would then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number one each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was only by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his astonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.
With much interest I
sat watching him. Savage though he was, and hideously marred about the face—at
least to my taste—his countenance yet had a something in it which was by no
means disagreeable. You cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings,
I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep
eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a
thousand devils. And besides all this, there was a certain lofty bearing
about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not altogether maim. He
looked like a man who had never cringed and never had had a creditor. Whether
it was, too, that his head being shaved, his forehead was drawn out in freer
and brighter relief, and looked more expansive than it otherwise would, this I
will not venture to decide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an
excellent one. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of General
Washington’s head, as seen in the popular busts of him. It had the same long regularly
graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were likewise very
projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on top. Queequeg was
George Washington cannibalistically developed.
Whilst I was thus
closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be looking out at the storm
from the casement, he never heeded my presence, never troubled himself with so
much as a single glance; but appeared wholly occupied with counting the pages
of the marvellous book. Considering how sociably we had been sleeping
together the night previous, and especially considering the affectionate arm I
had found thrown over me upon waking in the morning, I thought this
indifference of his very strange. But savages are strange beings; at times you
do not know exactly how to take them. At first they are overawing; their calm
self-collectedness of simplicity seems a Socratic wisdom. I had noticed
also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little, with the other
seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever; appeared to have no desire
to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances. All this struck me as mighty
singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there was something almost sublime in it. Here
was a man some twenty thousand miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that
is—which was the only way he could get there—thrown among people as strange to
him as though he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at
his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship;
always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though no
doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But, perhaps, to
be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so
striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a
philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman, he must have
“broken his digester.”
As I sat there in that
now lonely room; the fire burning low, in that mild stage when, after its first
intensity has warmed the air, it then only glows to be looked at; the
evening shades and phantoms gathering round the casements, and peering in upon
us silent, solitary twain; the storm booming without in solemn swells; I
began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my
splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This
soothing savage had redeemed it. There he sat, his very indifference speaking a
nature in which there lurked no civilized hypocrisies and bland deceits. Wild
he was; a very sight of sights to see; yet I began to feel myself mysteriously
drawn towards him. And those same things that would have repelled most others,
they were the very magnets that thus drew me. I’ll try a pagan friend,
thought I, since Christian kindness has proved but hollow courtesy. I drew my
bench near him, and made some friendly signs and hints, doing my best to talk
with him meanwhile. At first he little noticed these advances; but presently,
upon my referring to his last night’s hospitalities, he made out to ask me
whether we were again to be bedfellows. I told him yes; whereat I thought he
looked pleased, perhaps a little complimented.
We then turned over the
book together, and I endeavored to explain to him the purpose of the printing,
and the meaning of the few pictures that were in it. Thus I soon engaged his
interest; and from that we went to jabbering the best we could about the
various outer sights to be seen in this famous town. Soon I proposed a social
smoke; and, producing his pouch and tomahawk, he quietly offered me a puff. And
then we sat exchanging puffs from that wild pipe of his, and keeping it
regularly passing between us.
If there yet lurked any
ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan’s breast, this pleasant, genial
smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and left us cronies.
He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; and
when our smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me
round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his
country’s phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if
need should be. In a countryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have
seemed far too premature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage
those old rules would not apply.
After supper, and
another social chat and smoke, we went to our room together. He
made me a present of his embalmed head; took out his enormous tobacco wallet,
and groping under the tobacco, drew out some thirty dollars in silver; then
spreading them on the table, and mechanically dividing them into two equal
portions, pushed one of them towards me, and said it was mine. I was going to
remonstrate; but he silenced me by pouring them into my trowsers’ pockets. I
let them stay. He then went about his evening prayers, took out his idol, and removed
the paper fireboard. By certain signs and symptoms, I thought he seemed
anxious for me to join him; but well knowing what was to follow, I
deliberated a moment whether, in case he invited me, I would comply or
otherwise.
I was a good Christian;
born and bred in the bosom of the infallible Presbyterian Church. How then
could I unite with this wild idolator in worshipping his piece of wood? But
what is worship? thought I. Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous
God of heaven and earth—pagans and all included—can possibly be jealous of an
insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship?—to do the
will of God—that is worship. And what is the will of God?—to do to my fellow
man what I would have my fellow man to do to me—that is the will of God. Now,
Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to
me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship.
Consequently, I must then unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolator. So
I kindled the shavings; helped prop up the innocent little idol;
offered him burnt biscuit with Queequeg; salamed before him twice or
thrice; kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace
with our own consciences and all the world. But we did not go to sleep
without some little chat.
How it is I know not;
but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends.
Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each
other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly
morning. Thus, then, in our hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg—a cosy,
loving pair.
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