Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

  “But I knew him! in France!— Oui, he once commented upon my brais’d Pork Liver with Aubergines,— offer’d to teach me the St. George Parry if I’d give him the Receipt.”

  “He was esteem’d for that, indeed, and for his Hanging Guard,— I’d show you it, but I wouldn’t want to nick up the old Spadroon.”

  “Damascus steel, ’s it not? Fascinating. How is that Moiré effect done?”

  “By twisting together two different sorts of Steel, or so I am told,— then welding the Whole.”

  “A time-honor’d Technique in Pastry as well. The Armorers of the Japanese Islands are said to have a way of working carbon-dust into the steel of their Swords, not much different from how one must work the Butter into the Croissant Dough. Spread, fold, beat flat, spread, again and again, eh? till one has created hundreds of these prodigiously thin layers.”

  “Gold-beating as well, now you come to it,” puts in Mr. Knockwood, “— ’tis flatten and fold, isn’t it, and flatten again, among the thicknesses of Hide, till presently you’ve these very thin Sheets of Gold-Leaf.”

  “Lamination,” Mason observes.

  “Lo, Lamination abounding,” contributes Squire Haligast, momentarily visible, “its purposes how dark, yet have we ever sought to produce these thin Sheets innumerable, to spread a given Volume as close to pure Surface as possible, whilst on route discovering various new forms, the Leyden Pile, decks of Playing-Cards, Contrivances which, like the Lever or Pulley, quite multiply the apparent forces, often unto disproportionate results. . . .”

  “The printed Book,” suggests the Revd, “— thin layers of pattern’d Ink, alternating with other thin layers of compress’d Paper, stack’d often by the Hundreds.”

  “Or an unbound Heap of Broadsides,” adds Mr. Dimdown, “dispers’d one by one, and multiplying their effect as they go.”

  The Macaroni is of course not what he seems, as which of us is?— the truth comes out weeks later, when he is discover’d running a clandestine printing Press, in a Cellar in Elkton. He looks up from the fragrant Sheets, so new that one might yet smell the Apprentices’ Urine in which the Ink-Swabs were left to soften, bearing, to sensitiz’d Nasalia, sub-Messages of youth and Longing,— all about him the word repeated in large Type, LIBERTY.

  One Civilian leads in a small band of Soldiers. “Last time you’ll be seeing that word.”

  “Don’t bet your Wife’s Reputation on it,” the Quarrelsome Fop might have replied. Philip Dimdown, return’d to himself, keeps his Silence.

  “If we choose to take the Romantic approach,— ”

  “We must,” appeals Tenebræ. “Of course he was thinking about her. How did they part?”

  “Honorably. He kept up the Fop Disguise till the end.”

  “Impossible, Uncle. He must have let her see . . . somehow . . . at the last moment, so that then she might cry, bid him farewell, and the rest.”

  “The rest?” Ives alarm’d.

  “After she meets someone else.”

  “Aaahhgghh!” groans Ethelmer.

  “Never ends!” adds Cousin DePugh.

  39

  “All right then, if tha really want to know what I think,— ”

  “Of course.”

  The Surveyors have been at this since Noon. Squire Haligast predicts an end to the general Incarceration by tomorrow. Ev’ryone not yet reel’d away into Madness prays that it be so, for no one here can bear much more Company.

  “Without meaning offense, then . . . ? ’tis against Nature.”

  “What! to mourn my Wife?”

  “Not to be seeking another . . . ?”

  For a moment Mason inspects his Co-Adjutor’s Shins,— then his eyes shift away, and grow unfocus’d. “Were we in Gloucester, I should expect, naturally, to hear such useful advice as this. ’Tis the expected thing. Simple country Procedure. Alas, I may have stopt in London for too long, breathing its mephitic airs, abiding too close to its Evil unsleeping. I know I have been corrupted,— but perhaps it has unmann’d me as well.”

  “You’re just not getting out enough . . . ?”

  “Out! Out where?” Gesturing at the Window, “White Mineral Desolation, unvarying and chill,— ”

  “Out of your Melancholy.”

  Try as he may, Mason can detect in this nought but kind Intent. “I only hope you’re not suggesting anyone in our immediate Company,— I mean, you haven’t been,— that is, what am I saying, of course you’ve . . . ,” his eyes happening to fall upon Dixon’s Stomach, whose size and curvature seem different to him, somehow (the Figure of it indeed changing, one day to the next, the rest of us watching in some alarm its Transition from a Spheroid vertically dispos’d, to one more wide than high). “Ah. ’Tis someone in the Kitchen. Am I right?”

  “Either that or I’m pregnant,” holding his Corporation and gazing down at it. “If so, ’twould be by Maureen, for I’ve been true to no other,— she being the one you’ll recall who bakes— ”

  “— the Pies,” Mason is joyous to enumerate, “the Tarts, the, the Jam-stuff’d Dough-nuts, the lengthy Menu of French Crèmes and Mousses, the Fruit-Cakes soak’d in Brandy be it Feast-day or no,— ”

  “Stop . . . ?” cries Dixon, “tha’re making me hungry.”

  “Ahrrh . . . ,” warns Mason.

  “Sure you wouldn’t like to just pop back to the Bake-house, take a chance that she’s in, find one or two of those iced Waffles, aye she or her friend Pegeen, happen you’ve seen her, the Red-head with the Curls . . . ? Wears green all the time . . . ?”

  “There it is. Damme! you persist.— Whenever I begin to imagine we’re past this.— One or two malicious Jokes, that’s fine, I’m a good Sport,— but pray you, grant me a Respite, no Pegeens.”

  “Perhaps I’m only trying to get thee to eat something. This self-denying has its limits,— tha’re down to skin and bones with it, ’tis an Affliction Sentimental, in which Melancholy hath depress’d thy Appetite for any Pleasure.”

  “Hold,— you’re sitting there like Henry the Eighth, advising me upon Dietary matters? Regard yourself, Sir,— how are we to do accurate work in the Field, with you subtending so many Degrees of it, even at the Horizon?— What is this Spheroid you bear,” tapping Dixon’s Belly, “or rather lug about, like some Atlas who doesn’t plan to bring the Globe all that far?”

  “ ’Tis prolate, still,” with a long dejected Geordie O. “Isn’t it . . . ?”

  “I’m an Astronomer,— trust me, ’tis gone well to oblate. Thanks for your concern at the altitude of my spirits,— but what you’re really seeking, is an Accomplice in the pursuit of your own various fitful Vices.”

  So, by the time the Snow abates enough to allow them to rejoin the Harlands, the Surveyors, having decided thereafter to Journey separately, one north and one south, to see the country, return to the Harlands the use of their Honeymoon Quilt, and kindly allow John Harland to toss one of his new silver Shilling Pieces, which lands Heads, sending Mason North and Dixon South. Next time, they agree to reverse the Directions.

  “Happen I’ll find someplace warm at last,” Dixon a bit too cheerfully.

  “See here, I hope we’ll go ahead with it,— I mean, it’s been like a Booth-load of Puppets swinging Clubs all about, hasn’t it.”

  “Ah know, Ah’m as unquiet as thee,— why aye, we must spread out, the one thing we knoaah of this Place, is, that Dimension Abounds . . . ?”

  (“Dixon was first to leave,” the Revd relates, “and with no indication in the Field-Book of where he went or stopp’d, let us assume that he went first to Annapolis,— ”

  “How ‘assume’?” objects Ives. “There are no Documents, Wicks? Perhaps he stay’d on at Harland’s and drove all of them south, with his drunken intriguing after ev’ry eligible,— meaning ev’ry,— Milkmaid in the Forks of Brandy-w
ine.”

  “Or let us postulate two Dixons, then, one in an unmoving Stupor throughout,— the other, for Simplicity, assum’d to’ve ridden,— as Mason would the next year,— out to Nelson’s Ferry over Susquehanna, and after crossing, perhaps,— tho’ not necessarily,— on to York,— taking then the Baltimore Road south, instead of the one to Frederick, as Mason would,— south, to Baltimore, and thro’ it, ever southing, toward Annapolis, and Virginia beyond. Tho’ with suspicions as to his Calvert Connections already high, Dixon might have avoided Maryland altogether, instead of tempting Fate.”)

  He comes into Annapolis by way of the Rolling-roads, intended less for the Publick than for the Hogsheads of Tobacco being roll’d in to Market from distant Plantations, night and day, with two or three men to each Hogshead,— African Slaves, Irish Transportees, German Redemptioners and such, who understand well enough that others might also prefer to travel this way. In Town, Dixon roams unfocus’d from Waggoners’ Taverns to harbor-front Sailors’ Dens,— “Only looking for that Card-game,” he replies if ask’d, and if they say, “What Card-game?” he beams ever-so-sorry and retreats from the Area, feigning confusion about ev’rything save the way out, for one Tavern is as likely as another to provide opportunities for Mischief.

  He has certainly, and more than once, too, dreamt himself upon a dark Mission whose details he can never quite remember, feeling in the grip of Forces no one will tell him of, serving Interests invisible. He wakes more indignant than afraid. Hasn’t he been doing what he contracted to do,— nothing more? Yet, happen this is exactly what they wanted,— and his Sin is not to’ve refus’d the Work from the outset.—

  When they later re-convene at Harlands’, Mason gets around to inquiring of Dixon, what was his Purpose, in entering Maryland.

  “Bait. Make myself available. Like Friend Franklin, out in the Thunder-Gusts . . . ?”

  “You wish’d to be . . . stricken? assaulted?”

  “I’m content with ‘Approach’d’ . . . ? Yet no French Agents, nor Jesuits in Disguise, have announc’d themselves, . . . nor have Freemasons cryptickally sign’d to me. . . . Yet I suppose my own Surveillor might be secreted anywhere in our Party, among our Axmen, Cooks, or Followers, noting ev’rything.”

  In Williamsburg at last, Dixon feels he has come to the Heart of the Storm. There can be no more profit in going any further South,— this will have to do for whatever he may learn.

  The Tobacco Plantations lie inert, all last season’s crop being well transported to Glasgow by now, and the Seeds of the next not yet in Flats. . . . Whilst the Young, who seem to be at ev’ry hand, take their Joy of Assemblies and River-Parties, Balls and Weddings,— others, longer in the Curing-Shed, rather hasten to explore at last the seasonless Vales of Sleep, with trusted,— how else?— African Slaves to stand in Cordons all ’round, and keep each Dreamer safe. Dixon rides into Town, a Maze-like Disposition of split-rail Fences, a Dockyard’s worth of Ship-lap Siding, a quiet Profligacy of Flemish Bond to be found upon vertical Surfaces from Pig-Ark to Palace. The last Seed-Pods hang, black and unbreach’d, from the Catalpa Trees. Swains by Garden Walls rehearse the Arts of Misunderstanding. Some nights, the Wind, at a good Canter, will as easily freeze tears to uncreas’d Faces, as Finger-tips to waistcoat Buttons. There is an Edge to Young Romance, this year, that none of those testing its Sharpness may recognize, quite yet.

  The Stamp Act has re-assign’d the roles of the Comedy, and the Audience are in an Uproar. Suddenly Fathers of desirable Girls are no longer minor Inconveniences, some indeed proving to be active Foes, capable of great Mischief. Lads who imagin’d themselves inflexible Rivals for life, find themselves now all but Comrades in Arms. The languorous Pleasantries of Love, are more and more interrupted by the brisk Requisitions of Honor. Over the winter-solid Roads, goes a great seething,— of mounted younger Gentlemen riding together by the dozens upon rented horses, Express Messengers in love with pure Velocity, Disgruntl’d Suitors with Pistols stuff’d in their Spatterdashes, seal’d Waggons not even a western Black-Boy would think of detaining. The May Session of the Burgesses, the eloquent defiance of Mr. Patrick Henry, and the Virginia Resolutions,— that Dividing Ridge beyond which all the Streams of American Time must fall unmappable,— lie but weeks ahead. At the College, Dixon may hear wise Prophecy,— at the State House, interested Oratory,— but there proves no-place quite as congenial to the unmediated newness of History a-transpiring, as Raleigh’s Tavern. Virginians young and old are standing to toast the King’s Confoundment. When it’s his own turn to, Dixon chooses rather to honor what has ever imported to him,— raising his ale-can, “To the pursuit of Happiness.”

  “Hey, Sir,— that is excellent!” exclaims a tall red-headed youth at the next table. “And ain’t it oh so true. . . . You don’t mind if I use the Phrase sometime?”

  “Pray thee, Sir.”

  “Has someone a Pencil?” The youth finds a scrap of paper, and Dixon lends him his Lead “Vine,” that he uses for sketching in the Field. “Surveyor? Say,” it occurs to him, scribbling, “are you Mason, or Dixon?”

  “Tom takes a Relative interest in West Lines,” quips the Landlord, “his father having help’d run the one that forms our own southern border.”

  “Upon the Topick of West Lines,” Dixon assures him, “any Advice would be more than welcome,— anything.”

  “ ’Twas Colonel Byrd that began it,— Pa, with Professor Fry, continu’d it. My guess is, the Professor did most of the Mathematickal Work,— for I know Pa was ever impatient with that. He would wear out books of Tables, so vehemently did he consult them.

  “Colonel Byrd’s segment is the oldest, run long before my time. He recorded each Day in a Field-book,— not only the Miles and Poles travers’d, but more usefully all the Human Stuff,— the petty Resentments, the insults offer’d and taken, the illnesses, the cures, the Food they ate, the Spirits they drank, the Ladies of all Hues, who captur’d their various eyes, now and again. . . .”

  “Is it printed, and sold?”

  “Not yet. When it shall be, I hope that ev’ry Surveyor will read it as a term of his Apprenticeship,— my father styl’d it one of the great Cautionary Tales of the Vocation.”

  “As to . . . ?”

  “Joint Ventures. Particularly when half the Commissioners live north of the other half. In Colonel Byrd’s history, the Carolinians in the Party were envious, gluttonous, slothful Degenerates all,— somehow owing to the difference in Latitude. ’Twould not surprise me if Pennsylvanians were to entertain similar opinions of their own Neighbors to the South, including Virginia. This land of Sensual Beasts.”

  Three young Ladies are peeping ’round the Door-Way, like shore-birds at the edge of the Water, stepping nicely in and out of that Aura of Tobacco-Smoke that Men for centuries have understood keeps women away as well as were they Bugs. “I’m going in,” declares the boldest of the Girls, actually then proceeding two or three steps inside, before crying, “Eehyeww!” and skipping in Retreat. Then another would try,— and “Eeyooh!” and out again, and so forth, amid an unbroken stream of close Discussion,— their desire for Romantick Mischief thus struggling with their feminine abhorrence of Tobacco.

  Dixon beams and waves at them. “Are all Virginian Ladies as merrily dispos’d?”

  “Ev’rywhere but at Norfolk, where talk of Passion far outweighs its Enactment,— indeed, the Sailors’ Paronomasia for that wretched Place, is ‘No-Fuck.’ ”

  “They’ll be wishing to Dance, I think,” judges young Tom. “We’ve been hearing that Musick for a while, now.”

  “But watch your Form, Sir, if Dueling be not your preferr’d Pastime, for one wrong Dance-step, Leg before Wicket, as you might say, and no shortage of Virginia Blades about to defend a Lady’s Honor,— ’twill be out at Dawn wi’ you.”

  Sure enough, no more than twenty steps into the Assembly Room, and eight Measures into a
lively Jig with a certain “Urania,” Dixon is aware of a perfum’d flickering upon one Cheek, which proves to be the Glove of her Fiancé, Fabian.

  “Did they tell You I was a Quaker, Sir, and would not fight?— ”

  “They did,— which is why I suggest we settle this at Quoits, Sir,— Megs at forty Feet, Ringers only.”

  “Eeh, most agreeable,” says Dixon, instead of, as he will insist he meant to say, “— if so, they are quizzing with you, Sir,— in fact I am a Transported Felon of the most Desperate Stripe, to whom, in the great Feast of Sin, Murder is but an Hors d’Oeuvre . . . ?”

  “We have found Quoiting,” Fabian is explaining, “similar enough to Pistols to satisfy us, with the same long and narrow Field, the Rencontre, if one wishes, at Dawn, the two Megs driv’n in the ground at a Distance negotiable, the Metal hurtling thro’ the Air, even, if you listen closely enough, a certain Hum,— ”

  “Thah’ was negotiable? I might have said thirty feet? Eeh! too focus’d, I imagine, upon the part where ev’ryone gets to stay alive . . . ?”

  At Dawn they go trooping out, the lot of them, to a Quoiting-Ground near the Water. When there’s just light enough to see the other Meg by, the Contest begins. After each Disputant wins a game, and they agree not to play the third, receiving each a Kiss of equal Vivacity from the fair Pretext herself, all repair to Breakfast amid smoky and sodden good Companionship.

  Returning north,— mud Tracks, black wet Branching of Trees overhead, as Revelations of Earth out thro’ the Snow,— Dixon, inhabiting Silence, waits, Clop after Clop, Mile after Mile, for some kind of sense to be made of what has otherwise been a pointless Trip. Somewhere between Joppa and Head of Elk, lightless within and without, he begins to Whistle, and presently to sing.

  Polecat in the Parlor,

  Hound-Dog up the Tree,