Ishmael attempts to read the physiognomy and phrenology of the Sperm Whale, a task he likens to scrutinizing the wrinkles on the Rock of Gibraltar. He notes that the whale is physiognomically anomalous because it lacks a proper nose. While the absence of a nose would be a blemish on a human sculpture like Phidias’s Jove, the whale’s sheer magnitude transforms this lack into an added grandeur, removing any potential indignity.
Focusing on the full front view of the head, Ishmael finds the aspect sublime. Unlike human or animal brows that signify the presence of a mind, the whale presents a vast, pleated forehead without distinct features—no eyes, ears, or mouth. This blank, massive brow conveys a god-like dignity and a sense of doom that surpasses all other living things. He argues that the whale’s genius is defined not by speech, but by its pyramidical silence. Suggesting that ancient cultures would have deified such a tongueless creature, perhaps placing it higher than the crocodile, he concludes that the whale’s brow is an unreadable hieroglyphic. Lacking a Champollion to decipher it, the “awful Chaldee” of the whale’s face remains an inscrutable text beyond the reach of even the most learned scholars.
Ishmael examines the phrenology of the Sperm Whale, noting that its massive skull, measuring twenty feet in length, conceals a tiny brain hidden deep within the spermaceti. To the observer, the vast outworks of the head present a false brow, making the true brain an inaccessible citadel. When the skull is unloaded and viewed from the rear, it strikingly resembles a human skull, though the lack of bumps indicating self-esteem or veneration suggests an inhuman, exalted potency.
Critiquing traditional phrenologists for ignoring the spine, Ishmael proposes a “spinal theory” of character, arguing that a man’s nobility is better read in his backbone than his skull. Applying this to the whale, he highlights the enormous size of the spinal canal and cord, which maintains a girth nearly equal to the brain for a considerable distance. He argues this spinal magnitude compensates for the small brain. Finally, Ishmael identifies the whale’s prominent hump as the external sign of a massive vertebra, designating it the “organ of firmness or indomitableness,” a trait the crew will soon witness firsthand.
The Pequod met the German ship Jungfrau on the predestinated day, her master Derick De Deer of Bremen approaching with curious urgency. While still at a distance, the German captain stood in his boat’s bows rather than the stern, waving something that sparked debate aboard the Pequod. Starbuck guessed a lamp-feeder, Stubb joked about a coffee-pot, but Flask saw the truth: an oil-can. Derick came begging. His ship was “clean”—empty of oil—and his crew retired to their hammocks in profound darkness each night. Ahab, indifferent to the German’s complete ignorance of the White Whale, permitted the transaction. Derick departed with his necessities supplied, but before he could reach his vessel, whales were raised simultaneously from both ships’ mast-heads. The German slewed his boat around without even depositing his oil-can, eager for the chase.
The Germans held the initial advantage, their four boats launched with a head start toward a pod of eight whales running abreast before the wind. But the Pequod’s crews soon identified a different prize: a huge, humped old bull lagging far behind the rapid pod. The whale moved with agonizing slowness, its yellowish incrustations suggesting jaundice or some infirmity. Its spout came short and laborious, choking forth in torn shreds, while its wake showed the unnatural stump of a starboard fin. Despite—or perhaps because of—its affliction, the creature’s immense bulk made it the most valuable target. Stubb quipped about the whale’s stomach-ache, while Flask cruelly promised a sling for its wounded arm.
Derick, confident in his lead, occasionally shook his lamp-feeder at the pursuing boats in derision. Starbuck burned at the mockery: the German taunted them with the very poor-box they had filled. The mates exhorted their crews with promises of brandy and feasts, the harpooners straining at their oars. The three Pequod boats ranged almost abreast, drawing closer with every stroke. Victory seemed certain for Derick until a crab caught the blade of his midship oarsman. While the clumsy lubber struggled to free his oar and Derick thundered in rage, the Pequod’s boats surged forward on the German’s quarter.
As Derick’s harpooner rose for a desperate long dart, three tigers sprang simultaneously to their feet. Queequeg, Tashtego, and Daggoo pointed their barbs in a diagonal row and darted their irons over the German’s head. All three Nantucket harpoons found their mark. The collision of the charging boats spilled Derick and his men into the sea, and Stubb shot past with a mocking farewell about sharks and St. Bernard’s dogs.
The whale sounded tumultuously, the three lines gouging deep grooves in the loggerheads. The boats’ gunwales dipped nearly even with the water, sterns tilting high as the men took smoking turns to hold the strain. In the eerie silence that followed, no groan or bubble rose from the depths—only the thin threads of rope descending into the blue, suspending the great Leviathan like the weight of an eight-day clock. The shadows of the three boats spread beneath the surface, vast phantoms haunting the wounded beast.
When the lines finally vibrated with life, Starbuck cried out. The whale broke water, exhausted, his blood pouring from non-valvular wounds in incessant streams. The boats surrounded him, revealing blind bulbs where his eyes had been and a strangely discolored bunch on his flank. Flask, ignoring Starbuck’s warning, struck the protuberance. An ulcerous jet shot forth, goading the whale into final fury. He thrashed among the boats, capsizing Flask’s craft and bespattering everything with gore before rolling over, turning up his white belly, and dying with a long, melancholy spout.
While securing the carcass, the crew discovered marvels: a corroded harpoon and a stone lance-head embedded in the flesh, ancient weapons suggesting the whale’s incredible age. But further examination was cut short when the body began to sink. The Pequod listed dangerously as the fluke-chains held fast, the deck slanting like a steep roof, the ship groaning under the strain. Handspikes and crows could not pry the chains free. Queequeg seized a hatchet, leaned from a porthole, and slashed at the fastenings. With a terrific snap, the chains parted, the ship righted, and the carcass sank.
From the mast-heads came word that the Jungfrau was lowering boats again, chasing a Fin-Back whose spout resembled a Sperm Whale’s but whose incredible speed made capture impossible. The Virgin crowded all sail in pursuit of her four keels, disappearing to leeward in bold, hopeless chase—a fitting emblem for Derick’s enterprise.
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