But one thing, nevertheless, that made me a little distrustful about receiving a generous share of the profits was this: Ashore, I had heard something of both Captain Peleg and his unaccountable old crony Bildad; how that they being the principal proprietors of the Pequod, therefore the other and more inconsiderable and scattered owners, left nearly the whole management of the ship's affairs to these two. And I did not know but what the stingy old Bildad might have a mighty deal to say about shipping hands, especially as I now found him on board the Pequod, quite at home there in the cabin, and reading his Bible as if at his own fireside. Now while Peleg was vainly trying to mend a pen with his jack-knife, old Bildad, to my no small surprise, considering that he was such an interested party in these proceedings; Bildad never heeded us, but went on mumbling to himself out of his book, "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth-"
"Well, Captain Bildad," interrupted Peleg, "what d'ye say, what lay shall we give this young man?"
"Thou knowest best," was the sepulchral reply, "the seven hundred and seventy-seventh wouldn't be too much, would it?- 'where moth and rust do corrupt, but lay-'"
Lay, indeed, thought I, and such a lay! the seven hundred and seventy-seventh! Well, old Bildad, you are determined that I, for one, shall not lay up many lays here below, where moth and rust do corrupt. It was an exceedingly long lay that, indeed; and though from the magnitude of the figure it might at first deceive a landsman, yet the slightest consideration will show that though seven hundred and seventy-seven is a pretty large number, yet, when you come to make a teenth of it, you will then see, I say, that the seven hundred and seventy-seventh part of a forthing is a good deal less than seven hundred and seventy-seven gold doubloons; and so I thought at the time.
"Why, blast your eyes, Bildad," cried Peleg, "thou dost not want to swindle this young man! he must have more than that."
"Seven hundred and seventy-seventh," again said Bildad, without lifting his eyes; and then went on mumbling- "for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."
"I am going to put him down for the three hundredth," said Peleg, "do ye hear that, Bildad! The three hundredth lay, I say."
Bildad laid down his book, and turning solemnly towards him said,
"Captain Peleg, thou hast a generous heart; but thou must consider the duty thou owest to the other owners of this ship- widows and orphans, many of them- and that if we too abundantly reward the labors of this young man, we may be taking the bread from those widows and those orphans. The seven hundred and seventy-seventh lay, Captain Peleg."
"Thou Bildad!" roared Peleg, starting up and clattering about the cabin. "Blast ye, Captain Bildad, if I had followed thy advice in these matters, I would afore now had a conscience to lug about that would be heavy enough to founder the largest ship that ever sailed round Cape Horn."
"Captain Peleg," said Bildad steadily, "thy conscience may be drawing ten inches of water, or ten fathoms, I can't tell; but as thou art still an impenitent man, Captain Peleg, I greatly fear lest thy conscience be but a leaky one; and will in the end sink thee foundering down to the fiery pit, Captain Peleg."
"Fiery pit! fiery pit! ye insult me, man; past all natural bearing, ye insult me. It's an all-fired outrage to tell any human creature that he's bound to hell. Flukes and flames! Bildad, say that again to me, and start my soulbolts, but I'll- I'll- yes, I'll swallow a live goat with all his hair and horns on. Out of the cabin, ye canting, drab-colored son of a wooden gun- a straight wake with ye!"
As he thundered out this he made a rush at Bildad, but with a marvellous oblique, sliding celerity, Bildad for that time eluded him.
Alarmed at this terrible outburst between the two principal and responsible owners of the ship, and feeling half a mind to give up all idea of sailing in a vessel so questionably owned and temporarily commanded, I stepped aside from the door to give egress to Bildad, who, I made no doubt, was all eagerness to vanish from before the awakened wrath of Peleg. But to my astonishment, he sat down again on the transom very quietly, and seemed to have not the slightest intention of withdrawing. He seemed quite used to impenitent Peleg and his ways. As for Peleg, after letting off his rage as he had, there seemed no more left in him, and he, too, sat down like a lamb, though he twitched a little as if still nervously agitated. "Whew!" he whistled at last- "the squall's gone off to leeward, I think. Bildad, thou used to be good at sharpening a lance, mend that pen, will ye. My jack-knife here needs the grindstone. That's he; thank ye, Bildad. Now then, my young man, Ishmael's thy name, didn't ye say? Well then, down ye go here, for the three hundredth lay."
Peleg and Bildad are quite the pair. Peleg is all salt and storm; Bildad, the calm eye of the hurricane. This moment, like so many in Moby-Dick, is full of comedy. The pair remind me of Bert and Ernie or Abbott and Costello. Out of the two, I would say that Bildad is more Abbott/Bert and Peleg is more Costello/Ernie. It's the difference between being passionate and emotional versus cool and rational.
I think I am a mixture of Peleg and Bildad. At times, I can get pretty worked up (read my post last night about mental illness and guns if you don't believe me). Other times, I have the ability to remain almost Spock-like in my demeanor. Logical and detached. These dual natures have served me well as a writer.
When I start a writing project (whether it's a new poem or essay or short story), I'm all Peleg. I rush at it full throttle, ready to wrestle it to the ground in a stranglehold until it surrenders or throws me off. Those first moments are full of emotion and excitement. I throw everything I have into it, including the kitchen sink and a unicycle. I juggle. Balance a beach ball on my nose. Tightrope walk without a net. I am a freakin' Flying Wallenda with a pen.
After that first assault, my Bildad side kicks in. I step back, read what I've written. On bad days, I think I'm without talent. What I have on the page is stupid. Artless. If it were a teenage girl, it would be Carrietta White, without friends. A high school outcast. Tormented and miserable.
Of course, Carrietta had telekinetic powers and ended up killing most of the people in her high school, along with destroying a good portion of the town. There is something really visceral about those early drafts. There's muscle and bone exposed. But there's also something else. The writing is able to move things inexplicably.
I think that I'm extending this metaphor a little too far. You get the idea. I think all good writers have a little Peleg and Bildad in them. Passion and rationality.
Tonight, I'm going to work on my Lenten project. It's going to require some Bildad. I need to shape and edit. I have to see if what I have is going to be able to make a house crumble or a mountain walk across the street.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for pen and paper.
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