Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

  If, in fact, any. “Well,— fucking insane, wouldn’t you agree!”

  In the unpromising silence that slowly, gongingly, falls, Mason becomes aware of a measur’d Tapping upon the outside of the Tub, directly over the back of his Head. It progresses ’round the rim of the Tub until into sight comes the flush’d Phiz of an individual in an outdated Wig of foreign Manufacture, waving about a fantastickal Compass of Brass and Mahogany, rigg’d out with Micrometer Screws, dial-faces, enigmatickally wreath’d coils of Copper Wire. “Good day to you,” he greets Mason. “Are you the one responsible for this quite astonishing Magnet?”

  “What, this? ’tis a Tub, Sir.” Hoping the Echo may give him an Edge.

  “ ’Tis damn’ nearly Earth’s third Pole,” mutters the dishevel’d Philosopher. “Observe.” He steps across the room, holds up a Building-Nail, and lets it go. It flies through the Air, in a curious, as it seems directed, Arc, hits the Tub with a solid bong, flattening its Point by an eighth of an inch, and fails to drop to the floor,— “Not unlike Hungarian Vampirism,” snatching it loose and proceeding to dangle one by one a gigantick Loop of other Nails from it, “the Ability may be transfus’d from one Mass of Iron to another,— Excuse me. I am Professor Voam, Philosophical Operator, just at present scampering from the King’s Authorities, for electrocuting at Philadelphia one of these American Macaronis who cannot heed even the simplest Caution, such as, ‘Don’t touch the Torpedo.’ Ease of Compliance written all over it, not so? yet such is the Juvenility abounding upon these Shores, that the damn’d Fop must go feel for himself. Poh. Notwithstanding ’twas he who fell’d himself, a number of arm’d Citizens thought it better I depart. . . . Here,— shall you be much longer under there? Perhaps we could find some Coffee.”

  “I’m not sure how he got me under here,” Mason a bit plaintive, “and even less sure about how to get out. Your mention of Coffee, withal, intensifies my Unhappiness.”

  “Someone put you beneath this Ferric Prodigy?”

  “My Co-adjutor, Mr. Dixon.”

  “Of course! The Astronomers! Dixon and Mason!”

  “Actually,” Mason says, “That’s— ”

  “Say, I hope you Boys ain’t had a falling-out.”

  “He was demonstrating a Principle of Staticks, and became distracted. Apparently this Tub is resting upon some Axis invisible to all but Dixon.”

  The Professor has a Look-See, waving his Apparatus in mystickal tho’ regular Curves at the Tub. “Fascinating. The Axis it’s on is Magnetick. Good thing he didn’t try to balance this mechanickally. Whoo! you’d be flatter’n a Griddle-Cake.” He is carefully adjusting his Grip upon the Rim.

  “Excuse me,— to what End? Gazing at it, as it fries? saying, Oh, you’re so Circular . . . your Airr-Bubbles, they’re so intrriguing,— ”

  “Than, than,— good, that’s got it. Just help me lower it,— Q.E.D. and Amen. Say, pleasant Tub. This could be just the Article to keep Felípe in, now that I look at it.”

  “That’s your . . . ?”

  “Torpedo. Lodging him in the Arabian-Gardens Pool for the moment, but ’twill soon be time to move on, and then . . . ?”

  Mason stretches and twists his Neck and Head about. “Grateful, Sir. Now perhaps may I direct you to Safety,— any number of Refugees having become attach’d to our Party,— all traveling under the joint guarantee of the Proprietors, and their Provincial Governments as well. To my knowledge, tho’ there be Tailors, Oracles, Pastrymen, Musicians, Gaming-Pitches, Opera-Girls, Exhibitors of Panoramic Models, bless us all, there is not yet an Electric Eel.”

  “You are kind,— yet the publick rooms of Philadelphia offering Insult a-plenty,— I am not sure the Practice would subside as we mov’d West.”

  “Yet, supposing Progress Westward were a Journey, returning unto Innocence,— approaching, as a Limit, the innocence of the Animals with whom those Folk must inter-act upon a daily basis,— why, Sir, your Torpedo may hold for them greater appeal than you may guess.”

  “Rural Electrification,” the Professor sighs, “Seed-Bed of the unforeseen. Where is our choice? Come, and you shall meet Felípe.”

  After they are join’d by Dixon, emerging coprophagously a-grin from some false Panel in a Wall, exeunt the Premises, bringing along the Tub. One corridor’s branching away from the Arabian Gardens, the Slave who spoke to Dixon earlier stands now abruptly in Mason’s Path, obliging him to pause, quite close, Face to Face with her.

  “Leaving me again, Charles?”

  “It isn’t you.”

  “I was abducted by Malays. Love-Jobbers. Walk thro’ the Market with little Fly-Whisks, inspecting the Girls and Boys, striking this one, that one,— sooner or later, each is come for. When I felt the tiny Lashes, ’twas to be destin’d for Jesuit Masters, in payment of a Debt forever unexplain’d to me,— only then to be remanded, soon as we gain’d Quebec, to the Sisterhood of the Widows of Christ. Whence, after my Novitiate, kind Captain D. and I came to our Rapprochement.”

  “Your French has improv’d,” whispers Mason. “I know who you are, and well before next Midnight, too. Ah, and as for ‘kind,’ why the man is at least a Flagellant, you Wanton.”

  She smiles not at all enigmatickally, turns and steps away, shaking those Globes,— too bad, Flagellants in the Region, she’s here only on short-term Lease, in a Fortnight she’ll be shaking them someplace else, and a glamorous International Life it’s proving to be for her too, so far at least. Who says Slavery’s so terrible, hey?

  “Good-bye, Charles,” beginning to blur, receding ’round the long curve of the Wall. Mason, Dixon and the Professor go poking in and out of one secret Panel after the next, but she is no-where to be found. . . . Instead, the Lads now encounter a Dutch Rifle with a Five-pointed Star upon its Cheek-Piece, inverted, in Silver highly polish’d, shining thro’ the Grain upon the Wrist and Comb that billows there in stormy Intricacy, set casually above some subsidiary Hearth in a lightly-frequented Room.— A Polaris of Evil . . .

  “As it happen’d,” relates Mr. LeSpark, “I was reclining right there, upon a Couch, seeking a moment’s Ease from the remorseless Frolick,— ”

  “Alone, of course,” his Wife twinkling dangerously.

  “As Night after dismal night, my green Daffodil, thro’ the bleakness of that pre-marital Vacuum, Claims of the Trade preëmpting all,— not least the Society of your estimable Sex.” In which pitiable state, he dozes off and awakens into the Surveyor’s Bickering as to the Rifle’s Provenance,— Mason insisting ’tis a Cape Rifle, Dixon an American one.

  “ ’Tis no Elephant Gun,— haven’t we seen enough of these here by now, Dear knoaws? Barrel’s shorter, Stock’s another Wood altogether.”

  “Your Faith being famous, of course, for its close Appreciation of Weaponry.”

  “Ev’ry Farmer here has a Rifle by him, ’tis a primary Tool, much as an Ax or a Plow . . . ? tha can’t have feail’d to noatice . . . ?”

  “Surrounded upon all sides, Night and Day, by the American Mob, ev’ry blessed one of them packing Firrearrms,— why, why yes, I may’ve made some note of that,—

  Wade LeSpark slowly arises, to peer at them over the back of the Couch,— “Good evening, Gentlemen. I was just lying here, having a Gaze at this m’self. Handsome Unit, ’s it not? You can usually tell where one was made, from its Patch-Box,” reaching for the Rifle, turning the right side of the Butt toward the Lanthorn, “— the Finials being each peculiar to its Gunsmith, a kind of personal signature . . . look ye, here it is again, your inverted Star, work’d into the Piercings, as a Cryptogram . . . withal, this Brass is unusual,— pale, as you’d say,— high Zinc content, despite the British embargo, and sand-cast rather than cut from sheet. . . .

  “Lord Lepton hath an Eye,— Damme.” He cannot release his Grasp upon the thing. The octagonal Barrel is Fire-blu’d rather than Acid-brown’d,
the Lock left bright, despite its Length pois’d nicely when slung from its Trigger-Guard, all brought narrow, focus’d, the Twist upon the Rifling inside a bit faster than one in forty-eight, suggesting in its tighter Vortex a smaller charge, a shorter range . . . a Forest Weapon, match’d to a single Prey, heavier than a Squirrel, not quite heavy as a Deer. . . . In the Purity as you’d say of its Intent, ’tis as Mr. Dixon surmises, American, yet not the Work of any Gunsmith known to Mr. LeSpark.

  “Might ye be aware, Sir,” inquires Mason, “of another such inverted Star,— in Lancaster Town, upon the Sign of the Dutch Rifle?”

  “Aye, and clearly meant, Sir, to depict a local Piece,— its own Finial, ’s I recall, being in the form of a Daisy, which the Gunsmiths ’round Lancaster favor . . . tho’ there remains a standing Quarrel, as to what Rifle may have serv’d as the Model,— that is, if any at all did,— too much, out here, failing to mark the Boundaries between Reality and Representation. The Tavern’s Sign was commission’d of an unknown traveling Artisan, who left Town in the general troubles in ’fifty-five, as mysteriously as he’d come,— perhaps remov’d south, perhaps perish’d. One Story has it, that, lacking a Brush, he went out and shot a Squirrel, with whose Tail, he then painted the Portrait of the very Rifle us’d to obtain it,— that Star may’ve been put on later, out of simple Whim,— nor perhaps did he ever make a Distinction, between two points up, and two down.”

  “Again, Sirr,— perrhaps these Occurrences,—” Mason glowering, “as others, are invisibly connected.— Can you so lightly, Sirr, dismiss the very Insignia of the Devil,— Representations or no, allow’d to appear only by his Agents among us?”

  “Many will believe all Firearms to be his Work, no matter how decorated,” LeSpark replies, with enough Dignity in his voice to suggest to them an intimacy with the Trade, “whilst others with equal warmth declare these Pennsylvania Beauties to be about the Work of God,— therefore, a stand-off,— what matter?”

  “But that small Devices,” interjects Professor Voam, “may command out-siz’d Effects. This Pentacle, if valu’d for no more than the silent acts of Recognition it provokes, has more than earn’d back its Expense.”

  “As over-ponderous Tubs, Sir,” replies Mr. LeSpark, “— may never recoup the Cost of conveying them anywhere. How far were you thinking of taking this one, for Instance?”

  “Had we seen this Rifle first . . . ?” Dixon, to appearance forthrightly, “we might be off with it instead,— that is of course unless our Host, the Sharper, be a partickular Friend of thine . . . ?”

  Mason, his Eyes protruding in alarm, tugs upon Dixon’s Sleeve, hissing, “Don’t you see, there’s a Curse upon it, for Heaven’s Sake, Dixon,— ?”

  In an Exchange of Glances with Mr. Dixon, that Mr. LeSpark will remember even years later, however, each has soon reveal’d so far unconfess’d Depths of Admiration for the Rifle,— despite all the ill-fortune that might descend, from no more than touching it,— for its brutal remoteness nearly Classickal, as for the sacramental Fidelity with which it bodies the Grace peculiar to the Slayer,— no Object that fails so to carry Death just inside its Earthly Contours, can elicit Desire quite so steeply or immediately. . . .

  Mr. LeSpark has bargain’d with many a Quaker,— he knows the wordless Idiom Dixon speaks. The key point is that taking the Rifle will be far more dangerous, than taking the Tub, “— and as for the Tub,” grins Mr. LeSpark, at length, “why, what Tub, don’t ye know?”

  “To accommodate Strangers so, ’s it not risky?” Dixon puzzles. “Suppose we were desperate Outlaws . . . ?”

  “You don’t know what I see back in this Country. Bribes, Impersonations, Land Fraud, Scalp-stealing, Ginseng Diversion. Each Day brings Spectacle ever more disheartening. You three are but Boys out upon a Frolick.”

  “Most kind, Sir, ever so kind. . . .” Mason needlessly groveling.

  “Then again,” chuckles Wade LeSpark, “Lepton is an important Customer. . . . Maybe I should run right to him, with word of this Tub’s Alienation. Maybe he’ll send Dasp out with some Riders after you. Maybe this Rifle here’ll belong to one of ’em.”

  “In that case we’d best be moving along.”

  “Proceed cheerily, Boys.” And Mr. LeSpark, as he will come to tell the Tale, declines back into the Couch, seeking once again the comforts of celibate Slumber.

  The last Door out opens to them. They make for the Arabian Gardens, Dixon coaxing the Tub slickly along over the Tile-work,— soothe the Harem Girls, collect the Torpedo,— who bears an impatient Expression, as if it’s been waiting for them,— along with some pool water, and continue on to a convenient Ramp-way, where they transfer Tub and Torpedo to a Conestoga Waggon but lately unloaded, with fresh Horses hitch’d up,— “Yee-hah!” the Professor grabbing the Reins,— and Damme, they’re off.

  Clutching his Hat, swaying violently in his Seat, Mason shouts thro’ the Wind of Passage, “Say, Dixon,— Did it seem like Austra to you?”

  “If it was, she’s chang’d . . . ?”

  “Striking Woman. Fancied me, as you must have seen. Not at all like the old Austra, who couldn’t abide me. . . . Naahhrr,— can’t be she, a Man can tell, for Woman’s Distaste is incontrovertible, her clearest Emotion.”

  They reach the Wood-line without Incident, soon falling in with the Road to the Ferry, listening for Hoof-beats behind them. “A matter of time,” mopes Mason.

  “Why would they want huz? They’ve got the twenty pounds . . . ?”

  “Oh, not ‘us,’ Dixon. No, no. You.— I was under the Tub, remember?”

  “A proper Show,” cackles Professor Voam.

  “Bearing up, Professor?”

  “Ev’ry Time, this is how it turns out.” He has been traveling Inn to Inn with this Giant Specimen of Guyana Torpedo, giving Lectures upon, and Demonstrations of, the Electrical Creature’s mysterious and often life-altering abilities.” ’Tis styl’d the ‘Torpedo,’ tho’ Scientifically speaking, the true Torpedo is a kind of Ray or Skate,”— men wearing Hats made of dead Raccoons wait him out, watching the Torpedo in its Tank,—” ’tis also known as the Electric Eel, yet Mr. Linnæus hath decided ’tis no Eel, neither, but a Gymnotus. Skate, Eel, or Gymnotus, ’tis ever ‘the Torpedo’ to me. ‘Remember to feed the Torpedo today . . . wonder if that Torpedo’s charg’d up yet?’— never is, o’ course,— learn’d how to tell just by looking in its Eyes, how the Level is. Sí, sí, Cariño,” as he reaches now into the great Tub and begins gently to sweep his hands close to the Creature’s body, tail to head. The Torpedo remains calm, and presently grows appreciative, with a faint smile, much observ’d by Torpedo-Fanciers, about the V-shap’d Dimples at the Corners of its Mouth,— as if, in its grim and semi-possess’d life, it has found a moment to relax and let a Nonelectrickal provide the Thrills for a change.

  Sold to the Professor under the Name, “El Peligroso,” or, “The Dangerous One,” Felipe is quite large for a Surinam Eel, Five feet and two inches, and still growing. As he gets larger, the Dimensions of his Electrickal Organs change accordingly,— of particular interest being those of the Disks which are Stack’d lengthwise along most of his over-all length, each Disk being a kind of Electrickal Plate, whose summ’d Effect is to charge his Head in a Positive, as his Tail in a Negative, Sense. ’Tis necessary then, but to touch the Animal at both ends, to complete the circuit, and allow the Electrickal Fluid to discharge, its Fate thereafter largely contriv’d by the Operator, to provide onlookers with a variety of Spectacles Pyrotechnick.

  “The Torpedo you see here,— fully charg’d, giddy, indeed as if drugg’d by the presence of the Electrickal, saturating ev’ry Corpuscle of its Being,— this is the classic El Peligroso,” here the giant Eel smoothly assumes a new Attitude, as if posing for its Portrait, “the Torpedo the World sees, a strolling Actor, who nightly discharges into his Performance all the Day’s dire Accumulation,— tho’
the Mysteries of the Electrickal Flux within him continue to defy the keenest minds of the Philosophickal World, including a Task-Force of Italian Jesuits dedicated to Torpedic Study.

  “You and I might consider it a repetitive life, routine beyond belief, yet El P. is nothing if not a Cyclickal Creature. Sí,” to the apparently attentive Gymnotus, “una Criatura Cíclica, así eres. . . . Departure and return have been design’d into his life. If he had to live the way we do, worrying about Coach schedules and miss’d appointments and Sheriff Thickley,”— cheers at the local Reference,— “believe me, he’d be one unhappy Torpedo. How do I know? I counted.— As a condition of Life, Felípe needs Rhythm.

  “And so I believe do we. Did I see my Banjo somewhere?— ah, there ’tis.” Striking up an Accompaniment curiously syncopated, he sings,

  Lads and Lasses, pass on down,

  ’Tis the world-renown’d Torpe-do,—

  Quite the Toast of London Town,