Nightgown

We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals, and Queequeg now and then affectionately throwing his brown tattooed legs over mine, and then drawing them back; so entirely sociable and free and easy were we; when, at last, by reason of our confabulations, what little nappishness remained in us altogether departed, and we felt like getting up again, though day-break was yet some way down the future.

We lay in bed like this, chatting and dozing for short stretches. Now and then, Queequeg affectionately threw his brown, tattooed legs over mine, then pulled them back. We were so friendly and comfortable together. At last, our conversation chased away what little sleepiness we had left. We felt like getting up again, although daybreak was still some way off.

Yes, we became very wakeful; so much so that our recumbent position began to grow wearisome, and by little and little we found ourselves sitting up; the clothes well tucked around us, leaning against the head-board with our four knees drawn up close together, and our two noses bending over them, as if our kneepans were warming-pans. We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.

Yes, we became so wide awake that lying down began to feel tiresome. Little by little, we found ourselves sitting up, with the covers tucked snugly around us. We leaned against the headboard, our four knees drawn close together and our two noses bent over them. It was as if our kneecaps were warming pans. We felt very cozy and snug, especially because it was so chilly outside. In fact, it was chilly outside the bedcovers too, since there was no fire in the room. I say we felt all the cozier because, to truly enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold. No quality in this world is what it is except by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are comfortable all over, and have been for a long time, you can no longer be called comfortable. But suppose that, like Queequeg and me in bed, the tip of your nose or the top of your head is slightly chilled. Then, overall, you feel delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason, a bedroom should never have a fire. A fire in the bedroom is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. The height of this delicious feeling is to have only a blanket between your snug warmth and the cold outside air. Then you lie there like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.

We had been sitting in this crouching manner for some time, when all at once I thought I would open my eyes; for when between sheets, whether by day or by night, and whether asleep or awake, I have a way of always keeping my eyes shut, in order the more to concentrate the snugness of being in bed. Because no man can ever feel his own identity aright except his eyes be closed; as if darkness were indeed the proper element of our essences, though light be more congenial to our clayey part. Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the unilluminated twelve-o’clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable revulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that we were so wide awake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had felt such a strong repugnance to his smoking in the bed the night before, yet see how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when love once comes to bend them. For now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me, even in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy then. I no more felt unduly concerned for the landlord’s policy of insurance. I was only alive to the condensed confidential comfortableness of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a real friend. With our shaggy jackets drawn about our shoulders, we now passed the Tomahawk from one to the other, till slowly there grew over us a blue hanging tester of smoke, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.

We had been sitting crouched like this for some time when I suddenly decided to open my eyes. Whenever I am between the sheets, I always keep my eyes closed. I do this by day or night, asleep or awake, to concentrate more fully on how snug the bed feels. No man can truly feel his own identity unless his eyes are closed. It is as if darkness were the proper element of our inner selves, though light better suits our earthly bodies. So I opened my eyes and left my pleasant, self-made darkness. I entered the harsh darkness imposed by the unlit midnight, and the change felt unpleasant. I was glad when Queequeg suggested that perhaps we should light a lamp, since we were so wide awake. Besides, he very much wanted a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk. I had been strongly opposed to his smoking in bed the night before. But see how flexible our rigid prejudices become once love begins to bend them. Now I liked nothing better than having Queequeg smoke beside me, even in bed. He seemed so full of peaceful, homely joy when he smoked. I was no longer overly concerned about the landlord’s insurance policy. All I felt was the close, intimate comfort of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a true friend. With our shaggy jackets wrapped around our shoulders, we passed the Tomahawk back and forth. Slowly, a blue canopy of smoke formed above us, lit by the flame of the newly lit lamp.

Whether it was that this undulating tester rolled the savage away to far distant scenes, I know not, but he now spoke of his native island; and, eager to hear his history, I begged him to go on and tell it. He gladly complied. Though at the time I but ill comprehended not a few of his words, yet subsequent disclosures, when I had become more familiar with his broken phraseology, now enable me to present the whole story such as it may prove in the mere skeleton I give.

Perhaps the swaying bed canopy carried the savage’s thoughts to distant places. I do not know. But he began speaking of his native island, and I eagerly begged him to tell me his story. He gladly agreed. At the time, I had trouble understanding many of his words. Later, I became more familiar with his broken way of speaking, and he revealed more to me. Now I can present the whole story, for what it may be worth, in the bare outline I give here.