Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

  “Rest easy,— ’tis me they want,” Dixon waving.

  “Jerry! Charlie! Over here!” The Ladies seem delighted. Dr. Franklin waits for the parties to rearrange their seating, then strikes a C major chord. The room quiets instantly. He begins to play, rotating, by way of a Treadle Arrangement, the horizontal Stack of Glasses thro’ a Trough of Water, to keep the Rims ever wet, and then simply touching each wet rim moving by, as he would have touch’d the Key of an Organ, to produce a queerly hoarse, ringing Tone. If Chimes could whisper, if Melodies could pass away, and their Souls wander the Earth . . . if Ghosts danced at Ghost Ridottoes, ’twould require such Musick, Sentiment ever held back, ever at the Edge of breaking forth, in Fragments, as Glass breaks.

  Upon one of his intermissions, the Doctor, having secur’d a Pot of Ale, approaches the Geometers. “Come and meet Mr. Tallihoe, of Virginia,” who proves to be anxious that they visit with Colo Washington, of that Province.

  “You’ll want to have a chat,— he’s been out there, knows the country, the Inhabitants,— Surveyor, like yourselves.”

  Dixon here must suppress a Chuckle, knowing how it annoys Mason to be styl’d so. “Bad enough at the Cape, calling us both Astronomers,—” Mason has complained, and more than once. “I’m being insulted coming and going, it’s not fair.”

  “He’s said to be of a Wear Valley Family . . . ? They told me to look him up . . . ?”

  At Dawn they are led to a remote cross-roads north of the City. Out of the cold Humidity rolls smoothly a Coach of peculiar Design. “But step aboard, Gents, and this Machine’ll have yese in Mount Vernon ere Phœbus lift ’is Nob again.”

  “Is it safe?” inquires Mason.

  “Perfectly,— ’tis the Road that’s perilous!” Mr. Tallihoe shaking both their hands in fare-well.

  “You’re not coming along . . . ?” Dixon collects.

  “Not I. He’ll not wish to see me. Lord’s Mercy, no.”

  They ride all night, and neither sleeps. The Coach stops for nothing. Meals, each a distinct kind of “Sandwich,” are pass’d to them down thro’ a Hatch. The Remains, including Plates, are thrown out the Window, taken by the Wind. There are Newspapers and a Rack-ful of Books, and under the Driver’s seat is a Cask of Philadelphia Porter, whose Tap extends within, for the use of the Passengers. When they must piss, they do so into glaz’d Jars, with Chinese Scenes upon them. By the time they consider pissing out the Coach Doors, so swiftly have they Travel’d, that they miss the Chance. The Driver is calling, “Potowmack just ahead, Gents!” He drops them off by the River, into the Slap and Scent of Winter upon the Wing, and points them uphill. Bearing nothing but what they may have stuff d hastily into their Pockets, they begin the Ascent to Mount Vernon.

  28

  In their Decadency these Virginians practice an elaborate Folly of Courtly Love, unmodified since the Dark Ages, so relentlessly that at length they cannot distinguish Fancy from the substantial World, and their Folly absorbs them into itself. They gaily dance the steps their African Slaves teach them, whilst pretending to an aristocracy they seem only to’ve heard rumors of. Their preferr’d sport is the Duel,— part of the definition of “Gentleman” in these parts seems to be ownership of a match’d set of Pistols.

  To anyone who has observ’d slave-keepers in Africa, it will seem all quite ancient,— Lords and Serfs,— a Gothick Pursuit,— what, in our corrupted Days, has become of Knights and Castles, when neither is any longer reasonable, or possible. No good can come of such dangerous Boobyism. What sort of Politics may proceed herefrom, only He that sows the Seeds of Folly in His World may say.

  — The Revd Wicks Cherrycoke, Spiritual Day-Book

  Colo Washington turns out to be taller than Dixon, by about as much as Dixon rises over Mason. “Enable us quite nicely to stand in a Shed if we keep a straight line,” he greets them, “though Ah wonder why?” In this Province of the Unreflective, if the Colonel serves not as a Focus of Sobriety, neither is he quite the incompetent Fool depicted in the London press, rattling on, ever so jolly, about the whiz of enemy shot through the air, tho’ how mean-spirited must we be to refuse Slack in the Sheets of Manhood to a gangling Sprig, sighting one day through the Eye-piece of a Surveyor’s Instrument upon a Plummet-String, the next down the barrel of a Rifle at a Frenchman? In his mature person, tho’ he will seem from time to time to allow his Gaze to refocus upon something more remote,— yet ’tis as little Fidgeting as Reverie, something purposeful, rather, allowing him to remain attentive to the Topick at hand. When he hears Dixon speak, he smiles, though owing to the state of his teeth he is reluctant to do so when in company,— a smile from Colo Washington, however tentative, is said to be a mark of favor,— “My people come from around your neck of the woods, I think, for I’ve relatives who talk the way you do.”

  Dixon cups an ear. “Happen I hear a fading echo of the old Pitman’s Lilt . . . ?”

  The Colo shrugs. “Up in Pennsylvania they tell me I talk like an African. They imagine us here surrounded with our Tithables, insensibly sliding into their speech, and so, it is implied, into their Ways as well. Come. Observe this Pitcher upon the Table, an excellent Punch, the invention of my Man Gershom.”

  Out on the white-column’d porch, tumbler in fist, the large Virginian wants to talk real estate. “Sometimes a man must act quickly upon an opportunity, for in volatile times the chance may never come again. Just for example,— there is a parcel out past the South Mountain I’d like you to take a look at when you go by,— your Line, as I project it, passing quite close. Spotted it early in the War, kept it in mind ever since. . . . No reason you fellows shouldn’t turn a Shilling or two whilst you’re over here . . . and have ye consider’d how much free surveying ye’ll be giving away,— as the West Line must contribute North and South Boundaries to Pieces innumerable? Don’t suppose you have a copy of that Contract ye sign’d . . . well, no matter. . . . Yet I wonder at how you Boys have stirr’d up the land-jobbers. No one here regards the crest of the Alleghenies as the Barrier it was. You’ve only to look at the roads, some days the Waggons in a Stream unbroken,— new faces in ships arriving every day, nothing east of Susquehanna left to settle,— the French are out of the Ohio, the Scoundrel Pontiac is vanquish’d, the money is ready, Coffee-Houses in a frenzy of map-sketching and bargaining,— what deters us?”

  “General Bouquet’s Proclamation,—” Mason suggests, “no new Settlement west of the Allegheny Ridge-Line.”

  “Poh. The Proprietors won’t enforce that.”

  “Whence then,” replies Mason, “the Rumor that Mr. Cresap tried to bribe the General with twenty-five thousand acres, not to proclaim his Line?”

  “Hum. Perhaps,” chuckles Washington,” ’twas all the old Renegado dared promise,— and Bouquet may have wanted more,— as no Land may be had there now but by his Warrant, his Line might make of him an American Nabob,— as he was not offering his Services out of love for those inexpensive Tokens with which he is synonymous,— rather, the Lord ever Merciful, as in Bengal, sent us a Deliverer whose Appetite for Profit matches his self-confidence. ’Twas Business, more or less Plainly dealt. The next step will be to contract our Indian Wars out to Mercenaries,— preferably school’d in Prussian techniques, as it never hurts to get the best,— tho’ many of these Hired professionals miss one pay-day and they’re gone like Smoke. Could even be just before a decisive Battle,— forget it, damn ’em, they’re off. Did you imagine Bouquet, or the Penns, to be acting out of tender motives, toward the Indians?”

  “Why else refrain from expanding West,” mildly inquires Dixon, “but out of a regard for the Humanity of those whose Homes they invade?”

  “A motive even stronger and purer,” frowns Colonel Washington, “— the desire to confound their enemies,— who chiefly are the Presbyterians settling the West, Proclamation-Shmocklamation,— Ulster Scots, who hate England enough to fight against her
, now the French are departed,— tho’ the cheerfully idiotic, who are numerous, believe such Sectarian passions to lie behind us. The Ulster Scots were dispossess’d once,— shamefully,— herded, transported,— Hostages to the demands of Religious Geography. Then, a second time, were they forc’d to flee the rack-rents of Ulster, for this American unknown. Think ye, there will be any third Coercion? At what cost, pray? Americans will fight Indians whenever they please, which is whenever they can,— and Brits wherever they must, for we will be no more contain’d, than tax’d. The Grenville Ministry ignore these Data, at their Peril.”

  “Mr. Grenville, alas, neglects to consult me in these Matters,” says Mason.

  “Wrote to him,” adds Dixon,—” ’Tax the East India Company, why don’t tha?’ Did he even reply?”

  “As a rule here,” advises the Colo, “ye may speak your Minds upon any Topick Politickal. But on no account, ever discuss Religion. If any insist, represent yourselves as Deists. The Back Inhabitants are terrified of all Atheists, especially the Indians,— tho’ Englishmen bearing unfamiliar Equipment across their land might easily qualify. Their first Impulse, upon meeting an Atheist, is to shoot at him, often at close range, tho’ some of the Lancaster County Rifles are deadly from a mile off,— so running for cover is largely out of the Question. Besides, you cannot know what may be waiting among the Trees. . . .”

  “What’s that Aroma?” Dixon blurts, knowing quite well, from the Cape, what it is.

  “Ah, the new Harvest, how inhospitable of me. ’Tis but a small patch out back, planted as an Experiment,— if it prospers, next season perhaps we’ll plant ten Acres, as a Market-Crop. With luck, between the Navy and the New-York Fops, we could get rid of it all, Male and Fimble, and see us some Profit. Always a few Shillings in Canary-Seed as well, worse comes to worst.— Here then,— Gershom! Where be you at, my man!”

  An African servant with an ambiguous expression appears. “Yes Massuh Washington Suh.”

  “Gershom fetch us if you will some Pipes, and a Bowl of the new-cur’d Hemp. And another gallon of your magnificent Punch. There’s a good fellow. Truly, Gentlemen, ‘an Israelite in whom there is no guile.’ ”

  Mason, recognizing the source as John 1:47, actually chuckles, whilst Dixon rather glowers. “At Raby Castle,” he informs them, Phiz aflame, “Darlington liked to joak of his Steward, my Great-Uncle George, using thah’ same quo-tation from the Bible. Yet only from Our Savior, surely, might such words be allow’d to pass, without raising suspicions as to amplitude of Spirit . . . ? From the Earl of Darlington, the remark was no more than the unconsider’d Jollity one expects of a Castle-Dweller,— but to hear it in America, is an Enigma I confess I am at a loss to explain . . . ?”

  “Good Sir,” the Colonel smiting himself repeatedly upon the head, unto knocking his Wig askew, “I regret providing the Text for an unwelcome association.” He snatches the Wig completely off and bows his head, cocking one eye at Dixon. “The two Conditions are entirely separate, of course.”

  “I’m a Quaker,” shrugs Dixon, “what am I suppos’d to do, call thee out?”

  “Don’t bother about that Israelite talk, anyhow,” Gershom coming back in with a Tray, “it’s his way of joaking, he does it all the time.”

  “Thou aren’t offended?”

  “As I do happen to be of the Hebrew faith,” tilting his head so that all may see the traditional Jewish Yarmulke, attach’d to the crown of his Peruke in a curious display of black on white, “it would seem a waste of precious time.”

  “Say,— and cook?” beams George Washington. “Gersh, any them Kasha Varnishkies left?”

  “Believe you ate ’em all up for Breakfast, Colonel.”

  “Well whyn’t you just whup up another batch,— maybe fry us some hog jowls, he’p it slide on down?”

  “One bi-i-i-g mess o’ Hog Jowls, comin’ raaight up, Suh!”

  “Wait a minute,” objects Mason. “Do the Jews not believe, that,” glancing over at Dixon, “the Article you speak of, is unclean, and so avoid scrupulously its Flesh?”

  “Please,— you don’t think I feel guilty enough already? As it happens, the Sect I belong to, is concern’d scarce at all with Dietary Rules.”

  “— of any kind,” adds the Colo, having inhal’d mightily upon his Pipe, whence now arises another aromatic Cloud. “Yet if a Jew cooking pork is a Marvel, what of a Negroe, working a Room? Yes, my Oath,— here is Joe Miller resurrected,— they applaud him ’round a circuit of Coaching-inns upon the roads to George’s Town, Williamsburg, and Annapolis,— indeed he is known far and Wide, as a Theatrickal Artist of some Attainment, leaving him less and less time for his duties here,— not to mention an income per annum which creeps dangerously close to that of his nominal Master, me.” He passes the Pipe to Dixon.

  “He wants me to put it in Dismal Swamp Land Company shares,” Gershom confides. “How would you Gentlemen advise me?”

  Mason and Dixon make eye contact, Dixon blurting, “Didn’t they tell us,—” Mason going, “Shh! Sshhhh!,” Washington meanwhile trying to wave Gershom back into the house. Gershom, however, has just taken the Pipe from Mr. Dixon. “Thank you.” Inhales. Presently, “Well! How are you, Gentlemen, you having a good time? That’s quite some Coat you’re wearing, Sir. It’s, ah, certainly is red, ain’t it? And those silver Buttons,— mighty shiny,— tell me, seriously now, you were planning to wear this, out into the Forest?”

  “Why, why aye,— ”

  “Actually, bright red, it’s quite à la mode out there, seen rather often,— down the barrels of cheap Rifles.— You’ll be very popular with all kinds of Folk,— Delawares, Shawanese, Seneca,— Seneca fancy a nice red Coat.— So!” passing the Pipe to Mason, “I can see which one’s the snappy Dresser,— whilst the Indians are shooting at him, the Presbyterians’ll be after you, thinking you’re something to eat,— ‘It’s a Buffalo, I’m telling. . . .’ ye, mon!’ ‘Hush, Patrick, it seem’d but a Squirrel to me.’ ‘So it’s a Squirrel!’ ffsss— Pow!”

  “Oblig’d of course,” squawks Mason, “ever so kind to imagine for me my Death in America . . . need no longer preoccupy myself upon the Matter, kind yes and withal a great relief,— ”

  Gershom turning to Dixon, “Is he always like this, or does he get indignant sometimes?”

  “You see what I have to put up with,” groans Colo Washington. “It’s makin’ me just mee-shugginah. Here, a bit of Tob’o with that? . . .”

  “George.”

  “Oh-oh, stay calm, it’s the Wife, just let me do the— ah my Treasure! excellent Gown, handsome Stuff,— allow me to present,” and so forth. Mrs. Washington (“Oh, la, call me Martha, Boys”) is a diminutive woman with a cheerful rather than happy air, who seems to bustle even when standing still. At the moment she is carrying an enormous Tray pil’d nearly beyond their Angles of Repose with Tarts, Pop-overs, Gingerbread Figures, fried Pies, stuff’d Doughnuts, and other Units of Refreshment the Surveyors fail to recognize.

  “Smell’d that Smoak, figur’d you’d be needing something to nibble on,” the doughty Mrs. W. greets them. “The Task as usual falling to that Agent of Domesticity unrelenting, the wife,— as none of you could run a House for more than ten minutes, in the World wherein most of us must dwell, without Anarchy setting in.”

  “I was suppos’d to be watching a Pot upon the fire,” sighs Washington, “— matters more immediate claim’d my attention, one giving rise to yet another, till a certain Odor recall’d me to the Pot, alas too late,— another ruinous flaw in my Character, perhaps one day to be amended by me, though never to be forgiven by my Lady.”

  She shakes her head, eyes yawing more than rolling. “George, have a Cookie.” He takes a Molasses ginger-bread man, closely examines its Reverse, as if to assure himself that his Wife hasn’t somehow burn’d it, and is about to bite the head off, when something else occurs to him.


  “Now you may have heard of the Ohio Company,— a joint adventure in which my late brothers had a few small shares. There we were, as deep in the savage state as men have been known to venture, often no clear line of Retreat, a sort of,— Marth, my Nosegay of Virtues, what’s a piece of tricky weaving?”

  “How,” she replies, “pray, would I know? Am I a Weaver?”

  “— a piece of tricky weaving,” the Colo has tried to continue, “— order, I mean to say, in Chaos. Markets appearing, with their unwritten Laws, upon ev’ry patch of open ground, power beginning to sort itself out, Line and Staff,— ”

  Mason and Dixon, in arranging for a fair division of labor, have adopted the practice, whenever two conversations are proceeding at once, of each attending one, with Location usually deciding who gets which. So it falls to Mason to defend his Profession against what he suspects is Mrs. W.’s accusation of unworldliness, whilst Dixon must become emmesh’d in Ohio Company history.

  “— with our own forts at Wills and Redstone Creeks, and a Communication between. . . . As the East India Company hath its own Navy, why, so did we our own Army. Out in the wild Anarchy of the Forest, we alone had the coherence and discipline to see this land develop’d as it should be. Rest easy, that the old O.C. still exists,” the Colo is protesting, “tho’ in different Form.”

  “Sounds like the After-life,” Gershom remarks.