Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

  Continental Ladies

  Are Riddle enough for me . . .

  In all Virginia, tho’ Slaves pass’d before his Sight, he saw none. That was what had not occurr’d. It was all about something else, not Calverts, Jesuits, Penns, nor Chinese.

  40

  Having mark’d the sixth Anniversary of Rebekah’s Passing, Mason leaves the Forks of Brandywine and proceeds north, arriving in New-York by way of the Staten Island Ferry,— the approaching Sky-line negligible but for a great Steeple, far to port, belonging to the Trinity Church, at the head of Wall-Street, where he will attend services on Sunday. But then there is Monday Night.

  “The Battery’s the spot to be,” he is inform’d by all he meets who know the Town. It proves to be a testimonial to Desire, for upon a Cold Night of Wind that tears the Flames from the Torches, and sends waves against the Sea-Wall, yet along that Lee Shore, amorous Gaits more cautious for the wet Footing, go well into the Midnight a Parade of needful Citizens, Faces ever bent from the assault of Wind smooth as Light, toward the empty Path, the unapproachable Shadow, Acts never specified. Mason, seeing no point, joins them for a while nonetheless. It all proceeds wordless as a Skating-Party. Presently he has fallen in with a certain Amelia, a Milk-Maid of Brooklyn, somehow alone in New-York without funds. “Here then. You’ve not eaten.” He is correct. At a Tavern in Pearl-Street, she scoffs down several Chops, a Platter of Roasted Potatoes, her bowl of Fish Chowder and his, before Mason has butter’d his Bread. A Clock strikes the Hour. “Oh, no!” They must run to catch the last Ferry back to her farm upon Long-Island. A bittersweet passage, Ferries ev’rywhere upon that cold and cloud-torn Styx, Bells dolefully a-bang in the Murk, strange little gaff-rigg’d coasters and lighters veering all over the Water, stack’d high abovedecks with Cargo,— a prosperous Hell.

  Amy is dress’d from Boots to Bonnet all in different Articles of black, a curious choice of color for a milkmaid, it seems to Mason, tho’, as he has been instructed ever to remind himself, this is New-York, where other Customs prevail. “Oh, aye, at home they’re on at me about it without Mercy,” she tells him, “I’m, as, ‘But I like Black,’— yet my Uncle, he’s, as, ‘Strangers will take you for I don’t know what,’ hey,— I don’t know what, either. Do you?”

  “How should I—”

  “You’re a stranger, aren’t you? Well? What would you take me for?”

  Days later, riding back to Brandywine through the Jerseys, he will rehearse endlessly whether she said “would you take me,” or “do you take me,” and ways he might have improv’d upon “Urn . . . ,” his actual Reply. She does glance back with an Expression he’s noted often in his life from Women, tho’ never sure what it means.

  The “Uncle” seems young for one of that Designation, his Hair a-shine with some scented Pomade, side-whiskers shav’d to quite acute Angles, his hand ever straying to consult the over-siz’d and far from ornamental Dirk he wears in a Scabbard upon his Belt. With Mason he is genial but guarded,— toward Amy, however, even Mason detects insinuations of reprisal to come. “All her Funds? even the Pennies little Ezekiel gave her, to buy him Sweets? Oh, Amelia. Dear oh dear. Was she careless, was that it? Did she look in the Window of some English Shop and see a Frock she fancied? Did one of those awful big-city Dips fly by and lift her whole Bundle, perhaps as an Exercise? Is that what happen’d, ‘Amelia’?”— pronouncing the name with such Vexation, that Mason faces the inconvenient Dilemma of stepping in as a Gentleman must,— yet on behalf of someone he has cross’d a River with under, it now appears, an assum’d Name. Where is his Loyalty presum’d to lie? It isn’t as if they’ve been at all, as you’d say, intimate, is it? . . . Fortunately, by this point in his Deliberations, Amelia, in a suggestive Tone, is murmuring, “I know I’ve been ever so wicked, Uncle, . . . but the Gentleman has been very kind. . . .”

  Causing a redirection of the avuncular Gaze upon Mason, for reasons he will grasp only later, when Dixon explains it to him back in Camp, with Gestures, some of them impatient. “We all appreciate a kind Gentleman ’round here,” the young man offers, as into the Parlor behind him now slide an assortment of Rogues weirder than any Mason has yet seen, be it at Portsmouth, or the Cape, or even Lancaster Town.

  “Look what Pussy’s brought in,” leers a Half-Breed with a braided Queue.

  “Brit, by the look of him,” cries a short, freckl’d seaman in whom Stature and Pugnacity enjoy an inverse relation. “— long way from home ain’t you old Gloak?”

  “Who does your Wigs, Coz?”

  “There there, my Lads, think of the Impression we must be making, when we ought to be showing our Guest that here in Brooklyn, we can be just as warm and friendly as they are over in New-York. We’re not Country-folk, after all. We’ve seen ’em all, all manner of Traveler, saints and sinners, green and season’d, some who could teach Eels to wriggle and some who were pure fiduciary Edge, and I’ll tell you, this one . . . I don’t know. What do you think, Patsy? He’s not so easy to read. You’ve done the Ferry-boat Lurk, you know all the Kiddies, what say you?”

  Someone who in different Costume might easily be taken for a Pirate of the Century past, gives Mason the up-and-down. “New one on me, Cap’n. The diff’rently-siz’d Eye-balls suggest a life spent peering into small Op’nings. Yet he’s not a Bum-bailiff, nor a bum’s assistant,— lacks that, what you would call, cool disinterest.”

  “Amen to that,” cries the lewd Half-Breed.

  “Where would his Interests lie, do you think?” inquires Uncle. Ev’ry-one looks at Amelia.

  “ ’Xcuse me? I’m suppos’d to know? I’m sure I was, as, ‘Ahoy, Sailor,’ and Stuff?” she exclaims at last.

  “What’s he been peeping into, then?” the truculent Sailor yells. General again is the Merriment.

  “I observe the Heavens,” Mason seeking thro’ the force of his upward gaze some self-Elevation, “I am a Cadastral Surveyor, upon a Contractual Assignment,” in a tone inviting a respectful hush.

  Instead of which, Amelia, squealing in alarm,— “Cad! Ass?— Eeeoo!”— jumps backward, into the not entirely unwelcoming embrace of her “Uncle,” whilst a number of Dogs begin to wail, as it seems, disappointedly, and a thick-set Irishman, announcing in a pleasant voice, “I’ll kill him, if you lot would rather not,” begins to load his Pistol.

  “There there, Black-Powder, now put it away,— Sir, the lad’s con-fus’d, hates the English King and all his subjects as well,— best to tell him you’re French, use an Accent if you can manage it,— no, killing him is out of the question, Blackie, for you see, he’s the renown’d Astronomer, M’syeer Maysong.”

  “Nor am I ’ere to gathair the Intellizhonce,”— as Blackie’s Eyes narrow thoughtfully,— “on be’alf of anyone, for pity’s sake. Were it not for your Niece,— ”

  “Ah.— ”

  “Pray ye Captain,— I am well into my thirty-seventh Year,— ”

  “My point exactly. You see how she is. A Dew-Drop, trembling upon the morn of Womanly awakening, not yet assaulted by that Day you and I well know,— let alone savag’d, us’d up, and thrown aside.”

  “Quotha. She strikes me rather as a resourceful young woman, independent in her ways.”

  “Others would say willful. One day soon, someone will have to ask her to stop wearing black Cloth, as it all comes here from England,— yet who among us is eager for the task? they’ll hear her across the River.”

  “No black Cloth? Rum little gesture to insist upon.”

  “It goes to the Heart of this,” snarls the Half-Breed, Drogo. “All the Brits want us for, is to buy their Goods. The only use we can be to them, is as a Herd of animals much like the Cow, from whose Udders, as from our Purses, the contents may be periodickally remov’d,— well,— if all we have to withhold from them, be a few pitiable Coins, then so let us do,— hoping others may add to the Sum.”

&
nbsp; Hum . . . “may add” . . . Mason, squinting into a neutral corner, considers this. Upon the one hand, he has heard Highwaymen address Travelers they wish to rob in tones less direct,— upon the other, if they are willing to call it a Bribe, Mason is certainly willing to discuss the size of it. . . .

  “As it happens, Sir, yours may be just the helping hand we need. Be you familiar with any Aspect of Telescopick Repair?”

  “Enough not to cause too much Damage.”

  In the Silence following, ev’ryone but Mason exchanges Looks. “Oh, he’s all right,” decides “Amy” ’s “Uncle,” whose Sobriquet (for few here use Christian Names) is “Captain Volcanoe.” “If he reads the Papers, he knows what we are. . . . Sir,— when there is light enough,— would you mind having a look?”

  The Telescope stands in its own Window’d Observatory at the Top of the House, before it the Edge of the River, behind it a green Plain strewn with Groves and Homesteads, and stems of Smoke in wand’ring Ascent, their Yearnings how like our own. . . . The Instrument seems to be pointing down toward the Ship-Yards across the River,— commanding a View, in fact, of all the Docking along Water-Street, and, more obliquely, of the River-front, down to the White-Hall Slip at the South end of the Island, unto Governor’s Island beyond, and the Buttermilk Channel. A Field-Marshal’s Dream.

  “Here,” mutters Mason.—” ’Tis design’d to be aim’d upward, y’see, not down, for one thing. All the relevant screw-adjustments on this Model end, effectively, at the Horizon. For, as with our Thoughts, to aim downward is to risk,— ahrrh,” squinting into the Eye-piece. “Something has knock’d these Lenses quite out of Line. You need to re-collimate.”

  “How long will that take to fix?”

  “You really need a Frenchman for a job like this,— that is,— ”

  “Hey! You’re a Frenchman, you said.”

  “Oui, I meant, of course, I am your Man! What Tools are there?” Not many. The subtle and ingenious M. Maysong must unscrew the fastening-Rings with Blacksmith’s Tongs, padded with the remains of a Hat which has met with some violent Misadventure almost certainly including Fire. Sheep and Poultry wander in and out of his Atelier. Black-Powder looks in frequently, brandishing a different Weapon each time. “Do I make ye twitchy, Sir? Capital!”

  Feeling not quite a Prisoner, Mason works thro’ the Day. From across the River come the sounds of Mauls upon Pegs, Ship-fitters’ Ejaculations, the squeal of lines in Sheaves, Thuds and far-carrying Cries, Ships’ Bells, Chandlers’ Dogs hungry all day, Bumboats crying their Merchandise. Members of the Collectivity climb the Ladder, to appearance but curious in a friendly way, and soon the room is full of young Men and Women in avid Disputation. Someone brings up “Sandwiches,” and someone else a Bottle, and as night comes down over New-York like a farmer’s Mulch, sprouting seeds of Light, some reflected in the River, the Company, Mason working on in its midst, becomes much exercis’d upon the Topick of Representation.

  “No taxation— ”

  “— without it, yesyes but Drogo, lad, can you not see, even thro’ the Republican fogs which ever hang about these parts, that ’tis all a moot issue, as America has long been perfectly and entirely represented in the House of Commons, thro’ the principle of Virtual Representation?”

  Cries of, “Aagghh!” and, “That again?”

  “If this be part of Britain here, then so must be Bengal! For we have ta’en both from the French. We purchas’d India many times over with the Night of the Black Hole alone,— as we have purchas’d North America with the lives of our own.”

  “Are even village Idiots taken in any more by that empty cant?” mutters the tiny Topman McNoise, “no more virtual than virtuous, and no more virtuous than the vilest of that narrow room-ful of shoving, beef-faced Louts, to which you refer,— their honor bought and sold so many times o’er that no one bothers more to keep count.— Suggest you, Sir, even in Play, that this giggling Rout of poxy half-wits, embody us? Embody us? America but some fairy Emanation, without substance, that hath pass’d, by Miracle, into them?— Damme, I think not,— Hell were a better Destiny.”

  “Why,” exclaims the Captain,” ’tis the Doctrine of Transsubstantiation, which bears to the Principle you speak of, a curious likeness,— that’s of course considering members of Parliament, like the Bread and Wine of the Eucharist, to contain, in place of the Spirit of Christ, the will of the People.”

  “Then those who gather in Parliaments and Congresses are no better than Ghosts?— ”

  “Or no worse,” Mason cannot resist putting in, “if we proceed, that is, to Consubstantiation,— or the Bread and Wine remaining Bread and Wine, whilst the spiritual Presence is reveal’d in Parallel Fashion, so to speak,— closer to the Parliament we are familiar with here on Earth, as whatever they may represent, yet do they remain, dismayingly, Humans as well.”

  Ev’ryone stops eating and drinking to stare at him. “Parley Voo?” inquires Blackie. “Hey?”

  “All respect, Sir, ’tis not near as fussy as that. We’d rest content with someone in Parliament along the Lines of Mr. Franklin recently, in London, someone that side of the Herring, looking out for the interests of the Province,— walking in to that Board of Trade,— ‘Right, then, here I am in person,’— turning on that damn’d Charm,— ”

  “Aye, an agent for Parliamentary business,— working for us, not some Symbol of the People who won’t care a rat’s whisker about his Borough, who will indeed sell out his Voters for a chance to grovel his way to even a penny’s-worth more Advantage in the World of Global Meddling he imagines as reality.”

  “Yet Representation must extend beyond simple Agentry,” protests Patsy, “— unto at least Mr. Garrick, who in ’representing’ a rôle, becomes the character, as by some transfer of Soul,— ”

  “You want someone to go to London and pretend to be an American who hates stamp’d Paper, something like that? Send over Actor-Envoys? Stroller-Plenipotentiaries? Appalling.”

  “Not that bad a Thought,— and consider Preachers, as well. Mr. Garrick’s said to envy Whitefield’s knack for bringing a Congregation to Tears, simply by pronouncing ‘Mesopotamia.’ ”

  “If we’d but had someone there, why there might be no miserable Stamp Tax now,— and till we have someone, that can prevent the next such, why, the Stamp Act is simple Tyranny, and our duty’s to resist it.”

  Mason expects shock’d murmurs at this,— that there are none shocks him even more gravely, allowing him a brief, careening glimpse at how far and fast all this may be moving,— something styling itself “America,” coming into being, ripening, like a Tree-ful of Cherries in a good summer, almost as one stands and watches,— something no one in London, however plac’d in the Web of Privilege, however up-to-the-minute, seems to know much about. What is happening?

  “. . . Even Playing-Cards,— they want to take a Shilling the Pack. If your Parliament go ahead with this, we’ll have a Summer like the World has never seen.”

  “Not my Parliament,” Mason alertly.

  “Do I take it, then, that you own no Property, wherever ’tis you’re from, Sir?”

  “What Rooms in my Adult Life have not been rented to me,” Mason reckons, “have been included among the terms of my employment.”

  “Then you’re a Serf. As they call it here, a Slave.”

  “Sir, I work under Contract.”

  “Someone owns you, Sir. He pays for your Meals and Lodging. He lends you out to others. What is that call’d, where you come from?”

  “Why, and if you are free of such Arrangements,” Mason shrugs, “hurrah thrice over and perhaps one day you may instruct all the rest of us in how, exactly.”

  “So we shall.” The tone balanc’d upon a Blade’s Edge, between Pity and Contempt.

  Mason, not wishing to look into his eyes, carefully scrapes the Blacking from around a Set-Screw
, then with the worn Tip of a Hunting Knife removes it, a Quarter-turn at a time. “I have had this Promise in Philadelphia, as well,— from Coffee-House Cabals and such.”

  “We are in Correspondence,” says the Captain, “as are all the Provinces one with another. You may wish to pass that on to London. This is Continental, what’s happening.”

  Amelia, attach’d to an avuncular Sleeve, is gazing at Mason with new interest. “Didn’t know you were famous,” she murmurs, “working directly for the King, the Cap’n says,— well, I’m, as, ’maz’d.”

  “Alas, no longer. Out in the Woods these days, running lines for a couple of Lords in a squabble. . . .”

  “An exercise in futility! I can’t believe you Cuffins! In a few seasons hence, all your Work must be left to grow over, never to be redrawn, for in the world that is to come, all boundaries shall be eras’d.”

  “You believe Christ’s return to be imminent,” Mason feigning Heartiness, “— that is surely wonderful news, brother! In my own Faith, we believe the same,— except possibly for the ‘imminent’ part.”

  “Is this worth explaining to him?” Drogo asks the Captain.

  “Degrees of Slavery, Sir. Where in England are you from?”

  A Mask-dropping Sigh. “Stroud, G-d help me.”

  “Then you have known it.”

  “I have encounter’d Slavery both at the Cape of Good Hope, and in America, and ’tis shallow Sophistry, to compare it with the condition of a British Weaver.”

  “You’ve had the pleasure of Dragoons in your neighborhood? They prefer rifle-butts to whips,— the two hurt differently,— what otherwise is the difference in the two forms of Regulation? Masters presume themselves better than any who, at their bidding, must contend with the real forces and distances of the World,— no matter how good the pay. When Weavers try to remedy the inequality by forming Associations, the Clothiers bring in Infantry, to kill, disable, or deliver up to Transportation any who be troublesome,— these being then easily replaced, and even more cheaply, by others quite happy to labor in Silence.”