The Dying Whale

Not seldom in this life, when, on the right side, fortune’s favourites sail close by us, we, though all adroop before, catch somewhat of the rushing breeze, and joyfully feel our bagging sails fill out. So seemed it with the Pequod. For next day after encountering the gay Bachelor, whales were seen and four were slain; and one of them by Ahab.

Often in life, those favored by fortune sail close past us on the right. Though our sails hung limp before, they catch some of the rushing breeze, and we joyfully feel them fill out. So it seemed with the Pequod. The day after the Pequod encountered the cheerful Bachelor, whales were sighted and four were killed. Ahab killed one of them.

It was far down the afternoon; and when all the spearings of the crimson fight were done: and floating in the lovely sunset sea and sky, sun and whale both stilly died together; then, such a sweetness and such plaintiveness, such inwreathing orisons curled up in that rosy air, that it almost seemed as if far over from the deep green convent valleys of the Manilla isles, the Spanish land-breeze, wantonly turned sailor, had gone to sea, freighted with these vesper hymns.

It was late afternoon, and all the spearing of the crimson battle was over. Floating in the lovely sunset sea and sky, the sun and the whale died quietly together. Then such sweet, mournful prayers curled through the rosy air. It almost seemed as if the Spanish land breeze had playfully turned sailor and gone out to sea. It seemed to have carried these evening hymns from the deep green convent valleys of the Manilla isles.

Soothed again, but only soothed to deeper gloom, Ahab, who had sterned off from the whale, sat intently watching his final wanings from the now tranquil boat. For that strange spectacle observable in all sperm whales dying—the turning sunwards of the head, and so expiring—that strange spectacle, beheld of such a placid evening, somehow to Ahab conveyed a wondrousness unknown before.

Ahab had pulled the boat away from the whale. Now, soothed again but only into deeper gloom, he sat watching the whale’s final moments from the now still boat. All dying sperm whales turn their heads toward the sun before they expire. Seeing this strange sight on such a peaceful evening filled Ahab with a sense of wonder he had never known before.

“He turns and turns him to it,—how slowly, but how steadfastly, his homage-rendering and invoking brow, with his last dying motions. He too worships fire; most faithful, broad, baronial vassal of the sun!—Oh that these too-favouring eyes should see these too-favouring sights. Look! here, far water-locked; beyond all hum of human weal or woe; in these most candid and impartial seas; where to traditions no rocks furnish tablets; where for long Chinese ages, the billows have still rolled on speechless and unspoken to, as stars that shine upon the Niger’s unknown source; here, too, life dies sunwards full of faith; but see! no sooner dead, than death whirls round the corpse, and it heads some other way.

“He turns and turns his head toward it, slowly but steadily. With his last dying movements, he raises his brow in worship and prayer. He too worships fire, that most faithful, broad, lordly servant of the sun! Oh, that these all too sympathetic eyes should see such sights, so dear to them. Look! Here we are, far out at sea, beyond every sound of human joy or sorrow. These seas are utterly open and impartial. Here, no rocks provide tablets to record old stories. For ages as long as those of China, the waves have rolled on, silent and unspoken to. They are like the stars that shine on the unknown source of the Niger. Here too, a living creature dies facing the sun, full of faith. But look! As soon as he dies, death whirls his body around, and he faces another way.

“Oh, thou dark Hindoo half of nature, who of drowned bones hast builded thy separate throne somewhere in the heart of these unverdured seas; thou art an infidel, thou queen, and too truly speakest to me in the wide-slaughtering Typhoon, and the hushed burial of its after calm. Nor has this thy whale sunwards turned his dying head, and then gone round again, without a lesson to me.

“Oh, dark Hindu half of nature, you have built your own throne from drowned bones somewhere in these barren seas. You are an infidel, queen. You speak all too truly to me in the widely slaughtering typhoon and the hushed burial of the calm afterward. And your whale did not turn his dying head toward the sun and then turn around again without teaching me a lesson.

“Oh, trebly hooped and welded hip of power! Oh, high aspiring, rainbowed jet!—that one strivest, this one jettest all in vain! In vain, oh whale, dost thou seek intercedings with yon all-quickening sun, that only calls forth life, but gives it not again. Yet dost thou, darker half, rock me with a prouder, if a darker faith. All thy unnamable imminglings float beneath me here; I am buoyed by breaths of once living things, exhaled as air, but water now.

“Oh, mighty tail, bound and welded with three hoops! Oh, rainbow-colored spout, rising high! The tail struggles and the spout shoots upward, both in vain! In vain, oh whale, you seek help from that life-giving sun, which brings forth life but does not restore it. Yet you, darker half, rock me with a prouder, though darker, faith. All your nameless mixtures float beneath me here. I am held afloat by the breaths of things that once lived, breathed out as air but now turned to water.

“Then hail, for ever hail, O sea, in whose eternal tossings the wild fowl finds his only rest. Born of earth, yet suckled by the sea; though hill and valley mothered me, ye billows are my foster-brothers!”

“So I greet you, sea, and will greet you forever. In your endless tossing, the wild bird finds its only rest. I was born of the earth, but nursed by the sea. Though hills and valleys were my mother, you waves are my foster brothers!”