“If the Position at Greenwich— ”
“Sam Peach is not your friend. For every effort he makes on yerr behalf, there will be a price, and you may not enjoy paying it when it falls due.”
All subjunctive, of course,— had young Mason gone to his father, this might have been the conversation likely to result.
They found a Hill-Top and pick-nick’d. Mason, she had already notic’d, search’d ever in the smoky distance, beyond the Observatory, and the winding of the River, for the East India Docks. “Do you dream of the far Indies?” she ask’d finally. “I do. I wish we might go.”
He’d been in fact just about to tell her. It delighted him, this wordless Transgression of Cause and Effect. Aloud, “So we might.” And her face turn’d to him. “What are you doing on the sixth of June 1761?”
Innocently expectant, “Oh, I’d have to look in my Calendar of Engagements. . . . Are you inviting me off to the Indies, then?”
“Sumatra, if we’re lucky.”
“If we’re not?”
“Dunno. Hounslow Heath?”
“I meant,— would you go alone? Leave me here?”
“ ’Twould have to be together.”
She was looking at him closely. He meant something else, but she couldn’t quite see what. “Would we sail in an Indiaman?”
“Halfway ’round the world.”
“Aye, and back,— and would we be Nabobs?”
“Alas, my ’Bekah, nor even chicken Nabobs,— though we might put aside enough to bespeak an Orrery, perhaps find employment as Operators, appearing in Public Rooms up and down the Coaching Routes.”
“You won’t have this job any more? Stargazer’s Apprentice, or whatever it be.”
“The Work has to go on,” he told her. “Down here, the Rivalry with France, keen as ever,— out There, the Timeless, ev’rything upon the Move, no pattern ever to repeat itself. . . . Someone at Greenwich, ev’ry Night the Sky allows, must open the Shutters to its Majesty, and go in again to the unforgiving Snout and secure the Obs. If not me, someone.”
“I can’t believe Dr. Bradley wouldn’t want you back.”
“You see how he is,— his Age how merciless. By the time we return’d, we might no longer be able to look to his support.”
“This sounds like Politics, ’Heart. I thought you gaz’d at Stars, and thought higher thoughts, you people.”
“Arh, Arh! Alas,— not exactly. Astronomy is as soil’d at the hands of the Pelhamites as ev’ry other Business in this Kingdom,— and we ever at the mercy of Place-jobbery, as much as any Nincompoop at Court.”
“Why, Disgruntlement. I had no idea.”
Neither had he. “Kiss me anyway.”
“Never kiss’d a . . . Placeman before.”
“Play your Cards handsomely, ye shall have what we call the Newcastle Special.”
“Humm. . . . And I shall learn Malay, Hindoo, Chinese, too. I’ll be like one of those talking parrots. Oh, Mopery, you think I talk too much now, but Eastward bound, I shall never give those patient Ears a moment of rest, and you, unfortunate Lad, must suffer it, tho’ count it a blessing my Wish was not to take lessons upon the Bag-pipes. . . .”
As if this middle-aged Gothicism of Mason’s were but some of the Residue, darken’d and sour’d, of an earlier and more hopeful Bottling of Self, he tells Dixon of how, one night near the Solstice, courting, they decided to ride South, to view Stonehenge by moonlight,— she close and snug upon the Pillion, wind rushing by, those expressive arms, all his back a-shiver and fingers aching,— presently falling in with the ancient Welsh cattle route call’d the Calfway, that ran from Bisley down to Chalford and up the other side of the Valley, toward the Salisbury Plain,— a day, a night, love beneath Hedges, sleep, another day,— arriving a few hours before sunset upon Midsummer Eve.
She was restless. She mov’d closer to him. “Charlie. It’s very old, isn’t it. What is it?”
“The old stargazers us’d it.”
“It’s too familiar. I’ve this feeling . . . I know the place, and it knows me. Could it be our ancestors? even so long ago, in your family, or mine?”
“Oh, we’ve been millers and bakers forever,— yet it might be some o’ yours.”
“We did have relations hereabouts.”
“Then depend upon it,— if you mark the mass of these Stones, there must’ve once been full employment ’round here, and for many Years,— some of yours were bound to’ve been in on it . . . but dear oh dear, now won’t Tongues be a-wag from Bisley to Stroud,— ‘Lord in thy Mercy, he’s married a Druid!’ ”
Their rhythm suddenly laps’d, hearing him speak the Verb lately so much upon her mind,— and more so than upon her lips,— having left her, for a moment, abash’d.
He snapp’d his Fingers. “But of course, you are Druid, aren’t you,— frightfully awkward, tho’ how would I’ve known, you don’t look Druid particularly,— not as if I’d examin’d you as to religious beliefs or anything, is it. . . . So! Druid! Well, well,— do you still, ehm, put people in those wicker things, and set them on fire? hmm? or have you had a Reformation of your Faith as well?” He was smiling companionably, as if expecting some reply to this.
By surprize, she allow’d herself a merry laugh, made a fist, and slowly but meaningfully brought it to his Mouth. “And in Sapperton they’ll say, ‘Lord in thy Mercy, she’s married an Idiot.’ ”
And as they ascended for the first time to the Observatory, she gave Charlie another of her open-handed smacks upon the Wig-top. “Druids! You have the Presumption to quiz with me about Druids!”
“Don’t fancy it much, hey?” He stood with Bags and Boxes, already aching from the climb, yet aware that this was exactly how he’d prefer to come breezing into his new Position, helplessly burden’d and under affectionate assault by this handsome Lass, this particular one.
“Well look at it? It’s peculiar isn’t it? Are ye taking me to one of these sinister Castles, oh I’ve read about them,— secret Rituals, Folk in Capes and Hoods? Sex? Torture? Nuns and Monks? Why Charlie, the Idea.”
“Hold, I never said,— excuse me, you’ve read about what?”
“And Night falling as well.” They had heard an early Owl. “And what might go on in that part, there?”
“An ancient Well,— old as Stonehenge, anyway. Flamsteed us’d it for Obs in the Day-time. I’ll show you it tomorrow, if I may.”
And what sorts of Looks will she and Susannah be exchanging there in the courtyard of the Observatory, across the wind that bears away ev’rything spoken?— steps from the Zero Meridian of the World, the young Mistress in her Door-way, the Sorcerer’s Apprentice’s lower-born Wife, with her head inclin’d out of politeness, yet her eyes gazing out of Curiosity. . . . When does Rebekah begin to suspect that she is there to guarantee her husband’s behavior?
He wants to dream for her a Resurrection, nothing Gothic, nor even Scriptural,— rather, a pleasant, pretty Ascent, some breezy forenoon, out of the tended Patch before the Stone, St. Kenelm’s in the sunlight, Painted Ladies buffeted among swaying wild-flowers, all then rushing downward in a spectral blur as she rises above the valley, into the Wind, the shape of Sapperton in finish’d purity below, the Ridgeline behind her, cold, etch’d, that should have kept them from Oxford and Bradleys and all that came after.
He must often remind himself not to search the Boys’ Faces too intently for Rebekah’s. It makes them squirm, which gives him little Joy. Upon Days when he knows he will see them, he stares into his Mirror, memorizing his own face well enough to filter it out of Willy’s and Doc’s, leaving, if the Trick succeed, Rebekah’s alone, her dear living Face,— tho’ at about half the optickal Resolution, he guesses. When the time comes, he finds he cannot remember what he looks like. Withal, their Faces are their own, unsortably,— and claim the Moment.
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br /> “Will there be savages?” William asks. “Will you be afraid?”
“Yes,— and maybe.”
“Will you have a Rifle?”
“I’ll have a Telescope.”
“Maybe they’ll think it’s a Rifle.”
“Going where Mama go?” asks Doctor Isaac.
Someday, Mason almost replies. “Don’t know.” He picks the boy up, turns him upside down, and holds him by his feet. “Now then, what’s this?”
“Me too!” cries Will.
One in each Arm, “I’ll need to be at least this strong, in America.” Each time he bids them farewell and rides away, he pretends there’ll be at least one more Visit. They watch him depart, smaller in the Doorway than in his embrace, and at the Turn of the Road, hand in hand, go dashing off.
London is chang’d. There’s less welcome than he discovers he’s been wishing for. Ev’rywhere he looks are Squalid Mementoes of his History in the Town,— one Station after another upon a Progress Melancholick.
Mason has pimp’d for Maskelyne, that is his sin, what they whisper of even before his trailing Boot-sole has left the Carpet of the Foyer,— he has acquiesc’d in an elaborate Seduction of not only the Soprano within, but the comickal Basso at the Door as well. He knows what is happening. Yet at the same time, how can he know,— isn’t he but a simple lad from the Country? Here comes this sly Cambridge Mathematician. By the time Mason smoaks his Game, ’tis too late, and he is all but pack’d off to America and well out of the way, whilst the interloper stops at home, making briskly what Interest he may.
That would be the Text of it, anyhow,— with Sermons upon it a-plenty, no doubt, to follow. The Pilgrim, however long or crooked his Road, may keep ever before him the Holy Place he must by his Faith seek, as the American Ranger, however indeterminate or unposted his Wilderness, may enjoy, ever at his Back, the Impulse of Duty he must, by his Honor, attend. Mason, not quite grown undeceiv’d as to Places that may no longer exist, nor yet quite reluctant enough, to be push’d into someone else’s Notion of Futurity, is thus restricted to the outer Suburbs that ring the Earthly City,— the Capital at the Heart of his Time,— not altogether banish’d from, tho’ as little welcom’d into, that distant Splendor. By this Formula, any visit he makes with Maskelyne is fated to add a public component to what, in private, is already proving unendurable.
“Penance,” Mason declares. They meet in London, Summer ’63, at Mun Maskelyne’s Rooms near New Bond Street, with Mason waiting to hear about the Engagement in America, and Nevil Maskelyne on the Eve of sailing off upon the Barbados Trials of Mr. Harrison’s bothersome Watch. The eminent young Lalande, who has recently (in ’62) succeeded J. N. Delisle in the chair of astronomy in the Collège de France, is likewise in town to view trials of the Chronometer, and to dine at The Mitre Club as well.
“He’s but my age,” remarks Maskelyne, “— adjunct Astronomer at the Paris Observatory before he was twenty-one. You, by contrast, were,— was it twenty-eight?— when you went to work for Bradley?”
“Withal, I am six years older than him to begin with,” grunts Mason. “That gives him a jump of . . . what,— thirteen? fourteen years,— better get cracking, hadn’t we.— Regard this, we’re talking about Lalande again.”
“For a Frenchman, he doesn’t seem that difficult. Rather idolizes me, ’s a matter of fact, tho’ I can’t imagine why. . . .”
Mason ought to reply, “Because he’s too young to judge Character,” but instead grimaces diplomatically.
“Aha! Here he comes now!”
“Nevil,— Cher Maître!” They are at one another’s cheeks. Mason immediately suspects that Maskelyne has hir’d an Actor, a quasi-amateur Stroller at that, to impersonate the fam’d Philosophe.
“Dr. Bradley was the Lumina of our little Constellation of Astronomers, Sir,” the Frenchman, to appearance sincere, greets Mason. “Lemonnier, my Mentor, worship’d him.”
There is a Crash and a great voic’d Roar. A Woman shrieks, and several sets of footsteps hasten away. “Ah, and you’ll get to meet Mun,” his Brother in a Curatickal murmur.
Who now comes thumping in. “Just down from Bath, Nevil, need a good sleep to wake me up. Met this Herschel fella at the Octagon Chapel, rather your sort of indiv., I’d imagine, Astrologer like yourself, frightfully damn’d talented Organist as well, goes without saying. Doo-doo doodley, doodley doodley doodley,— well you get the Idea.— Hul-lo, J.J., still in Town?— Who’s this? Looks like he forgot where the Punch Bowl went. All in fun, Sir, and let us see what Nevil did give you to drink? Ah!” He pretends to back away in Terror from Mason’s Cup. “The Lad means well, of course,— but he has no idea of Hospitality. Come along.”
“I’ll go along with you,” says J. J. Lalande, “I’m off to Drury Lane to see Florizel and Perdita.”
“Both of them, eh?” Mun shaking his head in admiration. “You French,— say.”
The next thing Mason knows, Night has fallen and he is in a Quarter of the City previously unknown to him. Fans of violet light, from Lanthorns of tinted glass, reveal silent Crowds of hastening men and women. Odd Screams now and then break the determin’d Rush of Footfalls. Mun seems unconcern’d at the firmness of the Mobility’s Grip upon them, once they have enter’d the Current. Soon he has vanish’d, leaving Mason to find his way back, tho’ by now ’tis unclear if, thro’ an Agency yet to be discover’d, he has not already, Wig and Waistcoat, been not so much transported as translated, to a congruent Street somewhere in America.
22
Fr. Christopher Maire, far from pallid, wearing no black beyond his Queue-Tie, neither wiry nor unnaturally fit, in Manner as free of the suave as of the pinguid, seems scarcely any Englishman’s idea of a Jesuit. Yet he will confess, that earlier in life, during his Adventures in Italy with Fr. Boscovich in fact, he took time better us’d in spiritual Work to cultivate a more Loyolan Image,— proving quite unsuccessful at it, however,— remaining fair and spindle-shap’d as when he stepp’d off the boat, failing to rid his speech of Geordie coloration, nor ever achieving that opaque Effect of a Stiletto-Waver stuff’d into a Churchly Frock, which distinguishes El Auténtico.
Maire awaits Dixon in Emerson’s front parlor,— outside, the traffic in and out of Hurworth creaks, and whistles, and clops. Those bound from Teeside across the Fells take a last opportunity to hark human Speech, before the long miles and unspoken-of but too well known Visits toward the end of the Day, when the cool’d light above the spoil-heaps favors them. And if any hint of the sinister were to accompany this Priest, ’twould be well in that Northern, bones-and-blood tradition, of beings like Hob Headless, said to haunt the road between Hurworth and Neasham, all of whose former Neighbors were agreed upon what a wholesome individual he’d once seem’d.
Emerson, bustling into the room bearing the remains of the Bloat Herring from Breakfast, directly adjoining upon the Plate an Ox-Tail from several Meals ago, and something that may once have been a Haggis, cries, “Now clap yersel’s down,” in an unnaturally vivacious tone.
’Tis no great leap for most to imagine William Emerson a Wizard. Interest in the Dark Arts is ever miasmatick in Durham, as if rising from the coal-beds,— old as Draconick Incursion, the scaly Visitors drawn by the familiar odors of Sulfur and Burning,— not to mention Ghosts in ev’ry Tavern, and Cannibals, impossible to Defeat, ranging the Fells. . . . Seekers come in from all ’round to Hurworth, where Emerson is ever available to cast a Horoscope, mix up a Philtre, find a stolen Purse. Not all his feats are benevolent,— once, out of Annoyance, he kept a neighbor Lad in a Tree for most of the Day, unable to stir, let alone descend . . . using a form of the very Technique which has found its late Exponent in Dr. Mesmer.
“In Paris,” comments Cousin DePugh, his father happening for a Moment to be out of the Room,” ’tis all the Rage— indeed, I have been Mesmeriz’d.”
“What,—” Ethelmer needling in among a general murmur of Dubiety, “by Mesmer himself, I suppose.”
“Yes and Dr. M. was also kind enough to instruct some of us in what he knew,— ”
“Mesmer charges an hundred Louis, ’tis well known,” cries Euphie, “That’s eighty-five pounds Brit, where’s your poor Father getting money like that?”
“Oh, Franz gave us a Price, as there were so many of us, who wish’d to learn. By forgoing one Pint per Evening, for a Stretch somewhat longer than Lent, I soon had replenish’d my Funds. In fact, I don’t ever recall telling Pa about it, and would be oblig’d, dear Cousin, um, that is . . .”
“Peach Not is ever my Policy, DePugh.”
“I’ve become quite good at the Mesmerick Arts,— indeed I’m thinking of setting up a practice in America.”
“New-York’s the Place,” advises Brae, “they’ve ev’rything there. But stay out of this Town, Coz, if you’re looking to turn any Profit.”
“Brae!” cries her father in a mock-offended Tone. “Anyone with the necessary Drive can make a go of it here. As Mr. Tox says in his Penn-sylvaniad,— twenty-first or -second Book,
‘A young man seeking to advance himself,
Will get him to the nearest Source of Pelf.—
And few of these are more distinctly Pelfier,
Than,— Long Life, Queen of Schuylkill!— Philadelphia.’ ”
“I was thinking more of the West,” says DePugh. “Little or no Medical equipment to weigh down one’s Progress . . . the necessary Herbs, in those Wilds,— so ’tis said,— ev’rywhere to be found . . . and the Powers being already long known to Indian medicine-men, Business opportunities await the alert Practitioner, among Red, even as White, customers.”
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