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.