“As you yourself have pointed out, there’s but one other in the World,— ”
“Aha! My Virgin Double,— somewhere upon a Shelf, in one of Vaucanson’s many clandestine workshops, oh yes and by the way, what progress have you made, upon that simple Errand, wait, let me guess,— another barrier arisen? another note gone astray? or is it something more sinister, such as your desire to have the other for yourself? Eh? Look, he sweats, he trembles. Admit it, Betrayer.”
My social life had fallen to pieces. I could no longer show my face down at the Soupçon. The Duck was my Shadow night and day. She started waking me up to criticize some item of my attire from days before, my choice of Company, and at last, unacceptably, my Cooking. Three in the morning and we sat bickering about my Beet Quiche . . . beneath it her Iron Confidence in the power conferr’d by her Inedibility . . . being artificial and deathless, as I was meat, and of the Earth . . . my only hope was that her ’Morphosis would somehow carry her quite beyond me, and soon. Meanwhile, Paris having grown impossible, I resolv’d secretly to leave for America.
Feeling like a young man in a Fable, who has us’d up all but one Wish, I sent out my last note, held my breath, and was lucky,— upon the basis of a Chill’d Brain Mousse, invented to celebrate the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, I was able to secure passage to Martinique, and thence, through months of trans-shipment, in ev’rything from Pirogue to Pirate Ship, at last to New Castle upon Delaware, where I stepp’d ashore in the moonless Dark,— as it was said, that the people there did not interfere with these nocturnal Landings, being ever in dread of the French and Spanish Privateers. . . .
“Here then, you wretched little Frog!” The Company groans. It is Mr. Dimdown, Hanger in hand. The Frenchman picks up his Hachoir, and raises one eyebrow.
38
’Tis determin’d afterward, that Mr. Dimdown, heretofore unacquainted with any confinement longer than hiding in the Root-Cellar till the Sheriff took his leave, had been drinking steadily whatever Spirits came to hand, for the three days previous, attempting, as he explains, “to get the Time to pass differently, that’s all.”
Mr. Knockwood comes from around the Bar whilst Mrs. Knockwood, sorting her Keys, heads for the Musketoon in the China-Cabinet.
“And furthermore,” Mr. Dimdown in a fury, “how dare you you fabulating little swine pretend to any knowledge of America, having sneak’d onto our Shores ’pon your miserable Belly,”— and so on.
“There, there, now, Gentlemen,” the Landlord slowing his Address as much as he can afford to, whilst keeping an eye upon his Wife’s progress with the Powder Horns, Funnel, and Shot, “Mr. Dimdown, mind my Chef now, I can’t afford to lose him. And you, Frenchie,— ”
“Filthy frog! Deet adyoo!” Mr. Dimdown makes a murderous Lunge with his Blade, straight at the Chef’s unprotected Heart. Immediately, Inches short of its target, the Weapon, from no cause visible to anyone, leaves Dimdown’s Grasp and sails across the Room in a slow, some might say insolent Arc, directly in among the blazing Logs of the Hearth, where none may reach.
“ ’Twas . . . Magnetism or something,” protests Mr. Dimdown, “and withal I stumbl’d,— or was deliberately tripp’d up. Look ye,— how am I to retrieve my Bleeder now? The heat will ruin the Steel. Damn you, Mon-soor.”
“Thus,” intones the Frenchman, with a twirl of his Toque, “the very Duck, in action. You have seen for yourselves. You have borne Witness. Her capacity for Flight having increased to ever longer Distances, in the years between then and now, till one day, not even the vast Ocean might deter her,— Voilà!— I wake to find her perch’d at the end of the Bed, quacking merrily as a Milk-maid. Yes, she has follow’d me even to the New World, whether in affection or hatred, who can say,— that ’tis Passion, none may dispute,— and once again, I am besieged, as she continues upon her strange Orbit of Escape from the known World, whilst growing more powerful within it.”
To Luise, this is beginning to sound like Peter Redzinger all over again. Upon an Impulse, nevertheless, she places a somewhat larger than Parisian Hand,— a callus’d working Hand, cut and healed in a thousand places, sun-brown, hair-tucking, needle-nimble,— upon his arm. A close observer, did one attend, might see him begin to flicker ’round the edges. “Oh, Monsieur. An Angel, so?”
“Perhaps, Madame, it is merely the price I must pay for having left France,— yet, to be honest, coming from a place where people starve to death every night, if I must suffer the Duck’s inscrutable attendance, in Exchange for this Miracle of Plenty,— then, ’tis a Bargain. On market days in New Castle or Philadelphia, my Heart yet soars as ever it has done, . . . like a dream. . . . Have you ever wanted to cook everything,— the tomatoes, terrapins, peaches, rockfish, crabs, Indian Corn, Venison! Bear! Beaver! To create the Beaver Bourguignon,— who knows, perhaps even the . . . the Beaver soufflé, non?” He is gesturing excitedly.
“Sure, the Indians know how to cook Beaver,” she tells him, “there’s some Glands you have to take out, and much Fat to trim, but when ’tis done right? Ach, . . . as good as anything from a German kitchen, plain or fancy.”
“You have actually,”— he gazes at her,— “that is . . . eaten . . .”
In the days they are to remain snow-bound, a triangle will develop among the incorruptible Pietist, the exil’d Chef, and the infatuated Duck. Strangely, given her great powers for Mischief, the Duck does nothing to harm Luise, indeed extends to her the same invisible Protection,— as if sensing a chance to observe “Love” at first hand, invisibly. Thus do Armand and Luise, never knowing when she may be there watching, find one more Obstacle in the way of bodily Desires,— “She’s being quite sympathetic about all this, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, Armand. Are you sure you’ve told me ev’rything?”
“My Dearest! How could you even.
“She seems to know you . . . so well.”
It does not, however, in fact take long for the Duck to grow far less certain than before, that she even wishes an erotick Life. Meanwhile, in their Niveal Confinement, the behavior of the Company grows ever less predictable. “And over my head,” relates Squire Haligast, “it form’d an E-clipse, an emptiness in the Sky, with a Cloud-shap’d Line drawn all about it, wherein words might appear, and it read,— ‘No King . . .’ ”
“Thank you for sharing that with us, Sir,” snarls the dependably viperous Mr. Whitpot, the first upon whom the Squire’s oracular charm has begun to lose its grasp. As days of snow and snow-clouds in dark unpromising shades of Blue pass one into another, the readiness of immoderate Sentiment to burst forth upon any or no occasion is felt by all to be heightening dangerously. Even young Cherrycoke struggles with it, rosy Phiz a-glimmer, seated at a Table of local Dutch Manufacture, writing in his Memorandum-Book, as the snow lapses in wet silence ’cross the rhombic Panes before him, whilst from his Pen, in bright, increasingly bloody Tropes, speculation upon the Eucharistic Sacrament and the practice of Cannibalism comes a-spurting. It had begun in Scholarly Innocence, as a Commentary upon an earlier Essay by Brook Taylor (the Series and Theorem Eponym), “On the Lawfulness of Eating Blood.”
Mr. Knockwood observes from an upstairs Window a depth of Snow nearly level with its Sill, and worrying about the supply of Air in the Rooms below, rushes to find, and ask, the Astronomers. And what has happen’d to the Light? are there Snow-Eclipses? Down in the Pantry, Armand and Luise are embracing, outdoing the Sparkishness of even Philadelphian Youth (yet again, perhaps that is only what people bring out upon days when gossip is scarce, honoring the rest of the time their manifest Innocence),— whilst Mitzi, out in this taupe daylight, is hanging about the stable-hands and Scullery Boys, swinging her Hair, flashing her eyes, getting into conversations that she then tries to prolong to some point she can’t clearly enough define to herself. She’s grown up with murderous Indians in the Woods all ’round, painted bare skins and sharpen’d Bla
des, she has a different sense of Danger than do these mild estuarial Souls, with their diet of fish, like a race of house-cats, so. Yet what she really wishes to prolong, may be the state of never knowing exactly how safe she may be among the English Fisher-Boys, as at first, at each new fall of Snow, she has thrill’d, knowing it means at least one more day of isolation with the Inn’s resident Adonises,— or, as Armand, feeling increasingly Paterfamilial, prefers, Slack-jaw’d Louts. Lately, however, the Winter has begun to oppress more than encourage her hopes. She actually starts looking about for Chores to do, offering Armand her help in the Kitchen, still a-blush ev’ry time they speak,— Luise, as he is joyous to learn, having taught her at least the Fundamentals. Soon he is allowing her to prepare salads, and confiding minor Arcana of French Haute Cuisine,— its historical beginnings among the arts of the Poisoner,— its need to be carried on in an Attitude of unwavering Contempt for any who would actually chew, swallow, and attempt to digest it, and come back for more,— the first Thousand Pot-lid settings, from Le Gastreau’s fam’d article in the Encyclopédie,— the Pot-Lid being indeed a particular Hobby-Horse of Armand’s, upon its proper Arrangement often hanging the difference between success and failure. “Off, on, all the way on, partly off, crescents of varying shape, each with its appropriate use,— you must learn to think of the Pot, as you look down upon it, as a sort of Moon, with Phases . . . tho’ keeping in mind Voltaire’s remark about Gas- and As-tronomers.”
The Revd looks on with interest. The Frenchman fascinates him. With his recent animadversions upon the Lord’s Supper, he is attending more to Food, and its preparation. “I thought I had put behind me,” he writes, “the questions of whether the Body and Blood of Christ are consubstantiate with, or transubstantiated from, the Bread and Wine of the Eucharist,— preferring at last to believe, with Doctors such as Haimo of Halberstadt, that the outward Forms are given to bread and wine as an act of God’s Mercy, for otherwise we should be repell’d by the sight of real human Flesh and Blood, not to mention the prospect of eating it. Thus to God’s attributes must be added the skills of a master Chef, in so disguising a terrible reality. The question I cannot resolve is whether real Flesh and real Blood are themselves, in turn, further symbolick,— either of some mystickal Body of Christ, in which participants in the Lord’s Supper all somehow,— mystickally, to be sure,— become One,— or of a terrible Opposite . . . some ultimate Carnality, some way of finally belonging to the doom’d World that cannot be undone,— a condition, I now confess, I once roam’d the Earth believing myself to be seeking, all but asphyxiated in a darkling innocence which later Generations may no longer fully imagine.
“But since those days of young hopes, illusory daybreaks, and the uncanny sureness of Nerve, I have been down into other quarters of the City of Earth, seen and smell’d at village Markets, hung amid the flies and street-dust with the other animal meat, Human Flesh, offer’d for sale. . . . In America some Indians believe that eating the flesh, and particularly drinking the blood, of those one has defeated in battle, will transfer the ‘Virtues,’ as theologians might call ’em, from one’s late opponent, to oneself,— a mystickal Union between the Antagonists, which no one I have consulted is quite able to explain to me. It raises the possibility that Savages who appear to be Enemies are in fact connected somehow, profoundly, as in a Covenant of Blood, with War for them being thus a species of Sacrament. This being so, as a practical matter out here, the Warrior-Paths must be deem’d holy, and transgression of them serious, to a degree difficult to imagine in the common British Foot-path dispute. We must either change our notions of the Sacred, or come to terms with these Nations,— and sooner rather than later.”
Late one day after his assault upon Armand, Mr. Dimdown answers a Knock at the door of his Room, to find Mitzi Redzinger, holding out his Hanger cautiously by its Strap. “I clean’d it up as best I could,” she murmurs, gazing at anything but him. “A bit of Soot, nothing worse. And I sharpen’d it for you.”
“You what?”
“Armand has taught me how.” She has stepp’d into the room and shut the door behind her, and now stands observing him, surpriz’d at how tatter’d seems his Foppery in the Day-time.
“No one sharpens this but me, this is genuine Damascus Steel, for Heaven’s sake,— here, then, let us see the Damage.” Taking what seems far too long, he peers up and down the newly glitt’ring Edge, and is soon making ornamental Lunges and Passes in the Air, presenting each Leg a number of times for her Consideration, adjusting his Cuffs and Stock unceasingly. “Hmm. Appears that you may understand something about Blades. . . .” A complicated assault upon a Candle-stick. “Feels a little slow. Us’d to be faster. Is there a fruitful lawsuit here? yes perhaps I shall take Knockwood to court, if Spring ever comes,— say, Frowline, your Cap, . . . what d’you think you’re doing?”
The Goose. She is untying her Cap, then taking it slowly off, unbinding and shaking out her Hair. She is making it ripple for him. She is getting it to catch the winter Light thro’ the Window. She is so flabber-gasting this Macaroni with it that he seems to fall into a contemplative Daze before the deep Undulations, a Dreamer at the Edge of the Sea. Outdoors, the Snow is upon the Glide yet again, and soon ’twill be Night. She remembers all the Leagues of Snow-cover’d Terrain between here and the Redzinger Farm, all going dark, the City she cannot quite believe in that lies ahead, her Father’s Resurrection and Departure, her Mother’s visible Change, and lastly her own, which she can as little command as explain,— Breasts, Hips, Fluxes, odd Swoons, a sharpening Eye for lapses of Character in young Men. “The Lord provides,” her Mother has told her. “Wisdom comes to us, even as it appears to leave Men. You won’t need to go all the way to Philadelphia. Nor much further than the Town, upon Market Day, so.”
He has begun apologizing for his Assault upon the Frenchman.” ’Twas vile of me. I know you are his Friend,— I wish there were some way . . . ?”
“Simply tell him. Isn’t it done among you?”
“Go into that Kitchen? You’ve seen his Battery,— the Knives, the Cleavers? Mrs. Dimdown rais’d no Idiots, Frowline.”
“Oh, if you knew Armand.” She laughs merrily.
“I am become a Target for his Instruments edg’d and pointed. There, our Relation appears at a Stand-still.”
“But recall, that no one here has ever seen Armand cut anything. That’s why he’s teaching me how to,— so that I can do what he can no longer bear. Perhaps it is my Mother’s doing,— he has forsworn Violence in the Kitchen,— not only toward Meat, but the Vegetables as well, for as little now can he bring himself to chop an Onion, as to slice a Turnip, or even scrub a Mushroom.”
“Perhaps you oughtn’t to be telling me. A man needs his Reputation.”
“But as a veteran Bladesman, you would never take advantage of him, I’m sure?”
His face grows pink and swollen, a sign she knows,— she has been blurted at by young men. Feeling behind her for the Door-knob, she is surpriz’d to find herself several steps from it, well within the Room. “Mr. Dimdown, I trust you are well?”
“Philip,” he mumbles, “actually,” putting his Hanger back in its Scabbard. “As you have confided in me, so may I admit to you, that I have never, well that is not yet, been obliged to, uh in fact, . . .”
“Oh, I can see you’ve never been in a Duel.” She pushes aside some hair that may be screening the full effect of the Sparkle in her eyes.
“Ruin!— Ah! You must despise me.”
She shrugs, abruptly enough to allow him to read it, if he wishes, as a sympathetick Shiver. “We have had enough of fighting, out where we live,— it is not to me the Novel Thrill, that some Philadelphia Girl might think it.” Taking up hair that has fallen forward over her right Shoulder, she shifts the Locks back, and slowly leftward, tossing her head from time to time.
Ignoring this opening, all a-fidget, “Are you the only one tha
t can see it, or does ev’ryone know that I’ve never been out? as if, engrav’d upon my Head, or something?”
“Calm . . . Philip. I’ll tell no one.”
In lurches the Landlord. “Your mother’s looking for you, Miss.” Flourishing his Eyebrows at them both.
“Trouble,” mutters young Dimdown.
“He wishes to apologize to Monsieur Allègre,” Mitzi quickly sings out, “isn’t that it, Sir?”
“Uhm, that is,— ”
“Excellent, I can arrange that,” and Mr. Knockwood dashes off again.
“I’m putting my life in your hands, here,” says Philip Dimdown. “No one else is what they seem,— why should you be?”
’Tis only now that Mitzi, at last, finds herself a-blush, this being her very first Compliment, and a roguish one at that. He seems at once considerably wiser, if no older.
And presently, in the afternoon Lull between meals, the peace is made, the two men shaking hands at the kitchen door, and commencing to chatter away like two Daws upon a Roof-top. Luise comes by with a Tray-ful of Dutch Kisses, provoking witty requests, most of which, though not all, she avoids gracefully.
“Damme for a Bun-brain, Mounseer,— as if I’d actually impale the greatest Cook in the Colonies,— ”
“But your movement with the Blade,— so elegant, so professionel.”
“Not exactly the great Figg, I regret to say,— indeed, never closer to the real thing, than private Lessons, at an establishment in New-York, from a Professor Tisonnier.— ”
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