Call me Ishmael. Years ago, finding myself poor and aimless on land, I decided to sail and view the watery world. This is my method for curing melancholy and regulating my blood. Whenever my mouth grows grim, or my soul feels like a damp, drizzly November, I know it is time to leave. The urge becomes undeniable when I pause before coffin before warehouses, trail behind funerals, or feel a manic impulse to knock hats off in the street. Going to sea is my alternative to suicide. While Cato died on his sword with a flourish, I quietly board a ship. This impulse is not unique; almost all men feel a magnetic pull toward the ocean.
Watching him, Ishmael studies the savage’s tattooed face and sees past the grotesque exterior to something honest beneath. The shaven head and projecting brow strike him as noble, reminding him absurdly of George Washington’s bust. Queequeg’s complete indifference to those around him seems less rudeness than a kind of Socratic self-sufficiency—content in his own company twenty thousand miles from home.
In the firelit quiet, something melts in Ishmael. The world’s hypocrisies have wearied him, and here sits a man who has never cringed or owed a creditor. He decides to befriend this pagan. Drawing near, he makes friendly overtures; Queequeg responds by asking if they will share a bed again, and seems pleased at the answer.
Ishmael explains the book’s purpose, then proposes a smoke. The shared pipe thaws any remaining ice between them. When it finishes, Queequeg presses his forehead to Ishmael’s, clasps his waist, and declares them married—bosom friends who would die for each other.
After supper, Queequeg gives Ishmael his embalmed head and divides his silver, pushing half into Ishmael’s pockets despite protest. When he prepares to worship his idol, Ishmael hesitates—then reasons that true worship means doing God’s will, which is loving one’s neighbor. He joins Queequeg before the little god, offering burnt biscuit and kissing its nose.
They undress and climb into bed, at peace. In the darkness, they talk confidentially, like honeymooners, their hearts open to each other in this strange new union.
We had lain in bed chatting and napping, but soon grew wakeful and sat up with our knees drawn close together to preserve warmth in the cold room. Ishmael reflects that true comfort relies on contrast, arguing that one must be slightly chilled to fully appreciate the snugness of the blankets. He opens his eyes to the dark room, experiencing a momentary revulsion at leaving the self-created darkness of his mind for the physical gloom. Queequeg suggests lighting a pipe, and Ishmael finds his previous prejudices against smoking in bed have vanished due to their newfound affection. Love has bent his stiff morals, allowing him to find only condensed confidential comfortableness in sharing the pipe. Under the canopy of blue smoke, Queequeg begins to speak of his native island, prompting Ishmael to listen eagerly for the story.
Queequeg hails from Rokovoko, an unmapped island where his father ruled as High King. Even as a boy, he burned to see Christendom and carry enlightenment home. When a Sag Harbor vessel refused him passage, he ambushed it from hiding, capsized his canoe, seized a ring-bolt, and defied every threat until the captain relented. He accepted a common sailor’s berth to learn Christian arts.
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