by John Barth
“Indeed,” admitted Ebenezer, shaking his head, “it had not struck me ere now, what a sad lot is women’s. What beasts we are!”
“Ah, well,” sighed Joan, “ ’tis small concern o’ mine, save when I reflect on’t now and again: a whore loses little sleep on such nice questions. So long as a man hath my price in his purse and smells somewhat more sweet than a tanyard and leaves me in peace come morning, I shan’t say him nay nor send him off ill-pleased with his purchase. And I love a virgin as a child loves a new pup, to make him stand and beg for’t, or lie and play dead. Off your knees, then, and to bed with ye, ere ye take a quartan ague from the draught! There’s many a trick I’ll teach ye!”
So saying she held out her arms to him, and Ebenezer, breaking at once into sweat and goose bumps from the contest between his ardor and the cold March draughts in which for a quarter hour he’d been kneeling, embraced her fervently.
“Dear God, is’t true?” he cried. “What astonishment it is, to be granted all suddenly in fact what one hath yearned for time out of mind in dreams! Dear heart, what a bewilderment! No words come! My arms fail me!”
“Let not thy purse fail thee,” Joan remarked, “and for the rest, leave’t to me.”
“But ’fore God I love thee, Joan Toast!” Ebenezer moaned. “Can it be you think yet of the filthy purse?”
“Do but pay me my five guineas ere ye commence,” Joan said, “and then love me ’fore God or man, ’tis all one to me.”
“You will drive me to Bedlam with your five guineas!” Ebenezer shouted. “I love thee as never man loved woman, I swear’t, and rather would I throttle thee, or suffer myself throttled, than turn my love to mere whoremongering with that accursed five guineas! I will be thy vassal; I will fly with thee down the coasts of earth; I will deliver soul and body into thy hands for very love; but I will not take thee for my whore while breath is in me!”
“Ah then, ’tis after all a fraud and deceit!” Joan cried, her eyes flashing. “Ye think to gull me with thee’s and thy’s and your prattle o’ love and chastity! I say pay me my fee, Eben Cooke, or I’ll leave ye this minute for ever and all; and ’tis many the hour ye’ll curse your miserliness, when word of’t reaches my Johnny McEvoy!”
“I cannot,” Ebenezer said.
“Then know that I despise ye for a knave and fool!” Joan jumped from the bed and snatched up her garments.
“And know that I love thee for my savior and inspiration!” Ebenezer replied. “For ne’er till you came to me this night have I been a man, but a mere dotting oaf and fop; and ne’er till I embraced thee have I been a poet, but a shallow coxcomb and poetaster! With thee, Joan, what deeds could I not accomplish! What verse not write! Nay, e’en should you scorn me in your error and ne’er look on me more, I will love thee nonetheless, and draw power and purpose from my love. For so strong is’t, that e’en unrequited it shall sustain and inspire me; but should God grant thee wit to comprehend and receive it and return it as then you would perforce, why, the world would hear such verses as have ne’er been struck, and our love would stand as model and exemplar to all times! Scorn me, Joan, and I shall be a splendid fool, a Don Quixote tilting for his ignorant Dulcinea; but I here challenge thee—if you’ve life and fire and wit enough, love me truly as I love thee, and then shall I joust with bona fide giants and bring them low! Love me, and I swear to thee this: I shall be Poet Laureate of England!”
“Methinks thou’rt a Bedlamite already,” Joan snapped, hooking up her dress. “As for my ignorance, I had rather be fool than scoundrel, and yet rather scoundrel than madman, and in sooth I believe thou’rt all three in one skin. Mayhap I’m dolt enough not to grasp this grand passion ye make such claim to, but I’ve mother wit enough to see when I’m hoaxed and cheated. My John shall hear of’t.”
“Ah Joan, Joan!” Ebenezer pleaded. “Are you then indeed unworthy? For I declare to thee solemnly: no man will e’er offer thee another such love.”
“Do but offer me my rightful fee, and I’ll say not a word to John: the rest o’ your offer ye may put back in your hat.”
“So,” sighed Ebenezer, still transported, “you are unworthy! So be’t, if’t must: I love thee no less for’t, or for the sufferings I shall welcome in thy name!”
“May ye suffer French pox, ye great ass!” Joan replied, and left the room in a heat.
Ebenezer scarcely noted her departure, so full was he of his love; he strode feverishly about the bedchamber, hands clasped behind his back, pondering the depth and force of his new feeling. “Am I waked to the world from a thirty-year sleep?” he asked himself. “Or is’t only now I’ve begun to dream? Surely none awake e’er felt such dizzy power, nor any man in dreams such bursting life! Hi! A song!”
He ran to his writing-desk, snatched up his quill, and with little ado penned the following song:
Not Priam for the ravag’d Town of Troy,
Andromache for her bouncing Baby Boy,
Ulysses for his chaste Penelope,
Bare the Love, dear Joan, I bear for Thee!
But as cold Semele priz’d Endymion,
And Phaedra sweet Hippolytus her Step-Son,
He being Virgin—so, I pray may Ye
Whom I love, love my stainless Chastity.
For ’tis no niggard Gift, my Innocence,
But one that, giv’n, defieth Recompense;
No common Jewel pluck’d from glist’ring Hoard,
But one that, taken, ne’er can be restor’d.
Preserv’d, my Innocence preserveth Me
From Life, from Time, from Death, from History;
Without it I must breathe Man’s mortal Breath:
Commence a Life—and thus commence my Death!
When he was done composing he wrote at the bottom of the page Ebenezer Cooke, Gent., Poet and Laureate of England, just to try the look of it, and, regarding it, was pleased.
“ ’Tis now but a question of time,” he rejoiced. “Faith, ’tis a rare wise man knows who he is: had I not stood firm with Joan Toast, I might well ne’er have discovered that knowledge! Did I, then, make a choice? Nay, for there was no I to make it! ’Twas the choice made me: a noble choice, to prize my love o’er my lust, and a noble choice bespeaks a noble chooser. What am I? What am I? Virgin, sir! Poet, sir! I am a virgin and a poet; less than mortal and more; not a man, but Mankind! I shall regard my innocence as badge of my strength and proof of my calling: let her who’s worthy of’t take it from me!”
Just then the servant Bertrand tapped softly on the door and entered, candle in hand, before Ebenezer had a chance to speak.
“Should I retire now, sir?” he asked, and added with an enormous wink, “Or will there be more visitors?”
Ebenezer blushed. “Nay, nay, go to bed.”
“Very good, sir. Pleasant dreams.”
“How’s that?”
But Bertrand, with another great wink, closed the door.
“Really,” Ebenezer thought, “the fellow is presumptuous!” He returned to the poem and reread it several times with a frown.
“ ’Tis a gem,” he admitted, “but there wants some final touch…”
He scrutinized it line for line; at Bare the Love, dear Joan, I bear for Thee he paused, furrowed his great brow, pursed his lips, squinted his eyes, tapped his foot and scratched his chin with the feather of his quill.
“Hm,” he said.
After some thought, he inked his quill and struck out Joan, setting in its place the word Heart. Then he reread the whole poem.
“ ’Twas the master touch!” he declared with satisfaction. “The piece is perfect.”
8
A Colloquy Between Men of Principle, and What Came of It
WHEN HE HAD DONE revising his poem Ebenezer laid it on his night table, undressed, went to bed, and presently resumed the sleep that Joan Toast’s visit had interrupted, for the day’s events had quite fatigued him. But again his sleep was fitful—this time it was excitement and not despair that bothered him�
�and, as before, it was short-lived: he had been beneath his quilts no more than an hour before he was waked once again by a loud knocking at the door, which he’d forgot to latch after Joan’s departure.
“Who is’t?” he called. “Bertrand! Someone’s knocking!”
Before he could make a light, or even get up from the bed, the door was opened roughly, and John McEvoy, lantern in hand, strode into the room. He stood beside the bed and held the light close to Ebenezer’s face. Bertrand, apparently, was asleep, for to Ebenezer’s slight distress he failed to appear.
“My five guineas, if ye please,” McEvoy demanded calmly, holding out his other hand.
Ebenezer broke at once into a mighty sweat, but he contrived to ask hoarsely, from the bed, “How is’t I owe you money? I cannot recall buying aught of you.”
“Ye do but prove your ignorance of the world,” declared McEvoy, “for the first principle of harlotry is, that what a man buys of a whore is not so much her bum but her will and her time; when ye hire my Joan ’tis neither her affair nor mine what use ye make o’ her, so long as ye pay yer fee. As’t happens, ye chose to talk in lieu of swiving; ’twas a fool’s choice, but ’tis your privilege to play the fool if’t please ye. Now, sir, my five guineas!”
“Ah, my friend,” said Ebenezer, reminding himself grimly of his identity, “ ’tis only fair to tell you, if haply Joan did not: I love her wondrously!”
“ ’Tis all one, so ye pay your fee,” replied McEvoy.
“That I cannot,” Ebenezer said. “Your own reasoning in the matter rules it out. For if ’tis true, as you declare, that ’tis the rental of her will and time that makes a woman whore, then to pay you for what of her time she spent here would make her my whore though I did not touch her carnally. And make her my whore I will not—nay, not were I racked for’t! I bear you no ill will, John McEvoy, nor must you think me miserly: I’ve gold enough, and no fear of parting with it.”
“Then pay your fee,” said McEvoy.
“My dear man,” Ebenezer smiled, “will you not take five!—nay, six guineas from me as an outright gift?”
“Five guineas, as a fee,” repeated McEvoy.
“Where’s the difference to you, should I call the sum a gift and not a payment? ’Twill fetch no less in the market, I pledge you!”
“If’t makes no difference,” replied McEvoy, “then call its the fee for Joan Toast’s whoring.”
“Think not it makes no difference to me,” Ebenezer said, “To me ’tis all the difference! No man makes a whore of the woman he loves, and I love Joan Toast as never man loved woman.”
“Out on’t!” McEvoy scoffed. “Everything ye say proves ye know naught whatever concerning love. Think not ye love Joan Toast, Mr. Cooke: ’tis your love ye love, and that’s but to say ’tis yourself and not my Joan. But no matter—love her or swive her, so ye pay your fee. To no man save myself may she be aught but whore; I am a jealous man, sir, and though ye may purchase my Joan’s will and time as client, ye mayn’t court it as lover.”
“ ’Sbody, ’tis a passing odd jealousy, I swear’t!” Ebenezer exclaimed. “I ne’er have heard its like!”
“Which is to say, ye know naught of love,” said McEvoy.
Ebenezer shook his head and declared, “I cannot grasp it. Great heavens, man, this divine creature, this vision of all that’s fair in womankind, this Joan Toast—she is your mistress! How is’t you can allow men e’en to lay their eyes upon her, much less—”
“Much less much more? How clear it is ye love yourself and not Joan! There’s naught o’ the divine in Joan, my friend. She’s mortal clay and hath her share o’ failings like the rest of us. As for this vision ye speak of, ’tis the vision ye love, not the woman. ’Twere impossible it could be otherwise, for none o’ ye save I e’en knows the woman.”
“And yet you play her pimp!”
McEvoy laughed. “I shall tell ye a thing about yourself, Eben Cooke, and haply ye’ll recall it now and again: ’tis not simply love ye know naught of, ’tis the entire great real world! Your senses fail ye; your busy fancy plays ye false and fills your head with foolish pictures. Things are not as ye see ’em, friend—the world’s a tangled skein, and all is knottier than ye take it for. You understand naught o’ life: I shan’t say more.” He drew a document from his pocket and gave it to Ebenezer. “Read it with haste and pay your fee.”
Ebenezer unfolded the paper and read it with mounting consternation. It was headed To Andrew Cooke, 2nd, Gent., and commenced thus:
My dear Sir,
It is my unhappy duty to bring to your notice certain regrettable matters concerning the behavior of your Son Ebenezer Cooke…
The note went on to declare that Ebenezer was spending his days and nights in the wine- and coffee-houses and the theaters, drinking, whoring, and writing doggerel, and that he was making no effort whatever to find an instructive post for himself as he had been directed. It concluded:
I bring this lamentable state of affairs to your attention, not alone because it is your right as young Cooke’s Father to know them, but also because the young man in question hath added to his other vices, that of luring young women into his bedchamber on promise of generous remuneration, only to default on payment afterwards.
As agent for one such defrauded young lady, I find myself Mr. Cooke’s creditor in the amount of five guineas, which debt he refuses to honor despite the most reasonable pleas, I feel certain that, as the Gentleman’s father, you will be interested in the settlement of this debt either directly, by forwarding me the young lady’s fee, or indirectly, by persuading your son to settle it before the matter receives a more general notoriety. Waiting for communication from you upon the business, I am, sir,
Yr Hmble & Obt Svt,
John McEvoy
“ ’Sblood, ’tis my ruin!” Ebenezer murmured, when he had read it through.
“Aye, if posted,” agreed McEvoy. “Do but pay your fee, and ’tis yours to destroy. Else I mean to post it at once.”
Ebenezer closed his eyes and sighed.
“Doth the thing so much matter to ye?” smiled McEvoy.
“Aye. And doth it to you?”
“Aye. It must be whore-money.”
Ebenezer caught sight of his poem in the lantern-light. His features commenced their customary dance, and then, calming, he turned to face McEvoy.
“It cannot be,” he said. “That is my final word on’t. Post thy tattling letter if you will.”
“I shall,” declared McEvoy, and rose to leave.
“And append this to’t, if you’ve a mind to,” Ebenezer added. Tearing off the signature Ebenezer Cooke, Gent., Poet & Laureate of England, he handed McEvoy the poem.
“Such bravery,” smiled his visitor, scanning it. “What is this? And Phaedra sweet Hippolytus her Step-Son? Ye rhyme Endymion and Step-Son?”
Ebenezer paid his critic no heed. “ ’Twill at least belie your charge that I write doggerel,” he said.
“Endymion and Step-Son,” McEvoy repeated, making a face. “Belie’t, ye say? Marry, sir, ’twill confirm it past question! Were I in your boots I’d pay my whore-money and consign letter, Endymion, Step-Son, and all to the fire.” He returned the poem to Ebenezer. “Will ye not reconsider?”
“Nay.”
“Ye’ll go to Maryland for a whore?”
“I’d not cross the street for a whore,” Ebenezer said firmly, “but I shall cross the ocean for a principle! To you, haply, Joan Toast is a whore; to me she is a principle.”
“To me she is a woman,” replied McEvoy. “To you she’s a hallucination.”
“What manner of artist are you,” scorned Ebenezer, “that cannot see the monstrous love which fires me?”
“What manner of artist you,” retorted McEvoy, “that can’t see through it? And are ye in sooth a virgin, as Joan Toast swears?”
“And a poet,” Ebenezer declared with new serenity. “Now begone, an’t please you. Do your worst!”
McEvoy scratched hi
s nose in amusement. “I will,” he promised, and went out, leaving his host in total darkness.
Ebenezer had remained in bed throughout the conversation, for at least three reasons: first, he had retired after Joan Toast’s departure clothed in no warmer nightshirt than his own fair skin, and, not so much from prudishness as from shyness, he was reluctant to expose himself before another man, even his valet, though not always (as shall be seen) before a woman; second, even had this not been the case, McEvoy had given him little opportunity to get up; and third, it was Ebenezer’s ill fortune to be endowed with a nervous system and a rational faculty that operated as independently of each other as two Londoners of wholly various temperament who chance to inhabit the same rooming house, but go blithely each his separate way without thought of his neighbor: no matter how firm his resolve, as regards both Joan Toast and his new-found essences, any strong emotion tended to soak him with sweat, to rob him of muscle if not voice, and to make him sick. Given both the determination and the opportunity, he still could scarcely have accomplished sitting up.