Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

His name is Jonas Everybeet, and in the time he travels with the Party, he will locate, here and there across the Land, Islands in Earth’s Magnetic Field,— Anomalies with no explanation for being where they are,— other than conscious intervention by whoever or whatever was here before the Indians. “Anyone’s Guess what they’re for. And then your own projected Row of Oölite Shafts. Perfectly lin’d up with the Spin of the Earth. Suggestive, anyhow.”

  “Of what?”

  “Think of Mr. Franklin’s Armonica. Rather than a Finger circling upon the stationary Rim of a Glass, the Finger keeps still, whilst the Rim rotates. As long as there is movement between the two, a note is produc’d. Similarly, this Oölite Array, at this Latitude, will be spun along at more than seven hundred miles per hour,— spun thro’ the light of the Sun, and whatever Medium bears it to us. What arises from this? What Music?”

  Ev’ryone has a Point of View they wish to persuade the Surveyors to. “Sometimes you’re the Slate,” Mason observes, “sometimes you’re the Chalk.”

  “Eeehh!” Dixon frowns. “And here again is that bothersome Crimp, O’Rooty.” The Body-jobber offering them his Services, can arrange, he declares, for “any Work-force, at any level of skill, anywhere you want, when you want them. For instance I imagine you’ll be needing some axmen. Hey? Do I know this Business? First thing to decide is how much you want to spend,— local Lads at three and six per Diemi or, for what prices out to but a few farthings more,”— picks up a couple of Powder-Horns, places them either side of his head,— “Scandinavians! yes, the famous Swedish Loggers, each the equal of any ten Axmen these Colonies may produce. Finest double-bit Axes, part of the Package, lifetime Warranty on the Heads, seventy-two-hour replacement Policy, customiz’d Handle for each Axman, for ‘Bjorn may not swing like Stig, nor Stig like Sven,’ as the famous Timothy Tox might say,— Swedish Steel here, secret Processes guarded for years, death to reveal them, take you down a perfect swathe of Forest, trimm’d and cleared, fast as you’re likely to chain the distance.— Parts of a single great Machine,— human muscle and stamina become but adjunct to the deeper realities of Steel that never needs Sharpening, never rusts,— ”

  “Oh, come, Sir!” the Surveyors exclaim together.

  “So then take but one, take Stig here, on a trial basis only, pay what you think he’s worth, if you don’t like him, send him back.— ”

  Next in line behind O’Rooty comes a “Developer,” or Projector of Land-Schemes.

  “Kill him,” advises Dixon, before anyone can get in a word. Mason risks a quick lateral Squint, but can neither see nor smell any sign of Intoxication. “And do it sooner rather than later, as it only gets more difficult with time.”

  Since early in their acquaintance, the two have learn’d to mutter together so as to remain unheard beyond a Pipe-stem’s Length. The Projector, devotedly binocular and far too brisk, moves in an industrious Hop from one foot to the other, back and forth. “This is someone you know?” Mason not yet all that alarm’d.

  “In general only. But work’d for enough of them, didn’t I. Not proud of m’self for it. Needed the money.” So abridg’d is this reply that Mason surmises some long and probably tangled Iliad of Woe back among the Friths and Fells, which did not work out in Favor of Dixon, who continues, “Well, then . . . ? Whah’s thy preference?”

  “Ehm,— what?”

  “As to which of us will do the Deed.”

  “Deed . . . ?”

  “You know,—” cocking a rigid Finger toward their Visitor, who at last grows aware of being under Discussion.

  “Um, Dixon,— come back to the Tent for a moment, would you . . . yes . . . yes there’s a good chap,— just a word,— excuse us, please, small technical Question, quite trivial really,— come along, good, there we go.” Mason, having visited Bedlam as well as Tyburn, in a profound Mime of calm and Patience, Dixon playing his part with equal vigor, using as his models any number of Lunaticks to be found in Bishop, any market day.

  The first day of the West Line, April 5th, falls upon a Friday,— the least auspicious day of the week to begin any enterprise, such as sailing from Spithead, for example.

  To stand at the Post Mark’d West, and turn to face West, can be a trial for those sentimentally inclin’d, as well as for ev’ryone nearby. It is possible to feel the combin’d force, in perfect Enfilade, of ev’ry future second unelaps’d, ev’ry Chain yet to be stretch’d, every unknown Event to be undergone,— the unmodified Terror of keeping one’s Latitude.

  They have been held up by the Weather,— first Snow, which by the fourth day, even undrifted, has reached a depth of two feet and nine inches,— then clouded Skies, which prolong the impossibility of Zenith observations. Thursday night the fourth, the Sky is finally clear enough for them to determine their Latitude exactly. The next day, the weather holding, they decide not to waste the Friday, but to seize it, bad luck and all.

  A few wrinkles to be smooth’d. Messrs. Darby and Cope have left till the last Minute, the Question of who’s to go before, and who behind, upon the Chain. The phrases “Good enough” and “More or less” must be discouraged from the outset. Rules of precedence for Dixon’s Circumferentor have to be work’d out, principally that, in case of Conflict, it must ever defer to the Sector,— Astronomy before Magnetism.

  At last, Mr. Cope pulls up his Bob, and gathers and stows his Plumb-line, thus removing his end of the Chain from the Post Mark’d West,— proceeding then in that Direction, across the snowy Field, to Mr. Darby’s former Station. Detachment. The beginning of the West.

  So they set off, the Chain a-jingle, Waggons a-rumble, farm Geese a-blare, heading into Farmland with a quiet Roll to it, watch’d by deer and kine, under the usual injunctions against trampling Garden patches or molesting Orchards, the Instruments, with a Tent of their own, stranger than anything the Party expects to see between here and Little Christiana,— which isn’t much anyway, owing to the Trees, for which eleven more Axmen hire on, the second week.

  “You’d think these Instruments were alive,” Matthew Marine grumbles, “riding in Waggons upon feather Mattresses, whilst we slodge along behind, don’t we?”

  “May be they are alive, Matty.”

  “Aye and from someplace very far away ’s well, Matty.”

  “Accounts for why they look all Brass and Glass and all . . . ?”

  “Boys now don’t be telling me such things,— do you swear?”

  Nodding solemnly, “Far, far away, Matt.”

  “Distant and strange.”

  “New-Jersey?”

  “They do need tender Handling, boys,” young Nathanael McClean tries sternly to advise the five-shilling Hands.

  “Like your Mother’s Pussy,” is the reply.

  “My Mother?” counters the young Swamper equably, “Say,—

  Just saw your Mother, going out, to shoot,

  Somebody stepp’d on her Infantry Boots,— ”

  “Aye? Well,—

  I saw your Mother, and I Quiz you not,—

  Drinking penny-Gin from a Chamber-Pot.”

  “Ladies, please, there are Gentlemen present,” announces Overseer of the Axmen Moses Barnes (“Is ev’ry body ’round here nam’d Moses?”), seven and six per week, approaching with a heaviness of Step often felt minutes before his actual appearance. “Hark, is it Poetry? dear me Cedric, where’ve I put my Quill?” Those anxious to be his friends greet this with prolong’d Mirth. Barnes is a large Enforcer of Rules, with beefy undeluded eyes and a Reluctance to be far from the Cook Tent. Having long intimidated Commissaries into serving him gigantic piles of food, he has achiev’d a Mass ’twould shame a Military Waggon. Implicit in most of his dealings with the Axmen is the threat that should they fail to comply closely enough with his Wishes, this enormous yet mobile Weight may in some way unspoken,— and, ’tis further implied, unspeakable,— b
e directed against them.

  Takes them less than a week to run the Line thro’ somebody’s House. About a mile and a half west of the Twelve-Mile Arc, twenty-four Chains beyond Little Christiana Creek, on Wednesday, April 10th, the Field-Book reports, “At 3 Miles 49 Chains, went through Mr. Price’s House.”

  “Just took a wild guess,” Mrs. Price quite amiable, “where we’d build it,— not as if my Husband’s a Surveyor or anything. Which side’s to be Pennsylvania, by the way?” A mischievous glint in her eyes that Barnes, Farlow, Moses McClean and others will later all recall. Mr. Price is in Town, in search of Partners for a Land Venture. “Would you Gentlemen mind coming in the House and showing me just where your Line does Run?” Mason and Dixon, already feeling awkward about it, oblige, Dixon up on the Roof with a long Plumb-line, Mason a-squint at the Snout of the Instrument. Mrs. Price meantime fills her Table with plates of sour-cherry fritters, Neat’s-Tongue Pies, a gigantick Indian Pudding, pitchers a-slosh with home-made Cider,— then producing some new-hackl’d Streaks of Hemp, and laying them down in a Right Line according to the Surveyors’ advice,— fixing them here and there with Tacks, across the room, up the stairs, straight down the middle of the Bed, of course, . . . which is about when Mr. Rhys Price happens to return from his Business in town, to find merry Axmen lounging beneath his Sassafras tree, Strange Stock mingling with his own and watering out of his Branch, his house invaded by Surveyors, and his wife giving away the Larder and waving her Tankard about, crying, “Husband, what Province were we married in? Ha! see him gape, for he cannot remember. ’Twas in Pennsylvania, my Tortoise. But never in Maryland. Hey? So from now on, when I am upon this side of the House, I am in Maryland, legally not your wife, and no longer subject to your Authority,— isn’t that right, Gents?”

  “Ask the Rev,” they reply together, perhaps having noticed that Mr. Price is carrying a long Pennsylvania Rifle, two horns full of Powder, and a good supply of Balls.

  “Eh?” the Revd, by all signs unaware of the trouble the Gentlemen are putting him to, not to mention in, beams at the so far but perplex’d back-Inhabitant. “I know but how to perform the Ceremony,— perhaps you need to consult an attorney-at-Law?”

  “Separating Neighbors is one thing,” Rhys Price declares, “— but separating Husband and Wife,— no wonder you people get shot at all the time. No wonder those Chains are call’d the D——l’s Guts.” He must struggle to work himself up into a Rage,— owing to an insufficient exposure, so far, to Evil and Sorrow, remaining a Youth who trusts all he may meet, to be as kindly dispos’d as he.

  “What’ll happen is,” Alex McClean advises, “is you’ll get hammer’d paying double taxes, visits all the time from Sheriffs of both provinces looking for their quitrents, tax collectors from Philadelphia and Annapolis, and sooner or later you’ll have to decide just to get it up on some Logs, and roll it, one way or the other. Depends how your Property runs, I’d guess.”

  “. . . as North is pretty much up-hill,” Mr. Price is reckoning,” ’twould certainly not be as easy, to roll her up into Pennsylvania, as down into Maryland.”

  “Where I am no longer your Wife,” she reminds him.

  “Aye, and there’s another reason,” he nods soberly. “Well then, let’s fetch the Boys and get to it,— ’tis Maryland, ho!”

  45

  Back Inhabitants all up and down the Line soon begin taking the Frenchman’s Duck to their Bosoms, for being exactly what they wish to visit their lives at this Moment,— something possess’d of extra-natural Powers,— Invisibility, inexhaustible Strength, an upper Velocity Range that makes her the match, in Momentum, of much larger opponents,— Americans desiring generally, that ev’ry fight be fair. Soon Tales of Duck Exploits are ev’rywhere the Line may pass. The Duck routs a great army of Indians. The Duck levels a Mountain west of here. In a single afternoon the Duck, with her Beak, has plow’d ev’ry Field in the County, at the same time harrowing with her Tail. That Duck!

  As to the Duck’s actual Presence, Opinions among the Party continue to vary. Axmen, for whom tales of disaster, stupidity, and blind luck figure repeatably as occasions for merriment, take to shouting at their Companions, “There she goes!” or, “Nearly fetch’d ye one!” whilst those more susceptible to the shifts of Breeze between the Worlds, notably at Twilight, claim to’ve seen the actual Duck, shimmering into Visibility, for a few moments, then out again.

  “I might’ve tried to draw a bead onto it, . . . but it knew I was there. It came walking over and look’d me thump in the eye. I was down flat, we were at the same level, see. ‘Where am I?’ it wants to know. ‘Pennsylvania or Maryland, take your pick,’ says I. It had this kind of Expression onto its Face, and seem’d jumpy. I tried to calm it down. It gave that Hum, and grew vaporous, and disappear’d.”

  Mason and Dixon attempt to ignore as much of this as they may, both assuming ’tis only another episode of group Folly, to which this Project seems particularly given, and that ’twill pass all too soon, to be replaced by another, and so on, till perhaps, one day, by something truly dangerous.

  “They’ll believe what they like,” groans Mason, “in this Age, with its Faith in a Mechanickal Ingenuity, whose ways will be forever dark to them. God help this Mobility. They have to take all Projectors upon Trust,— half of whom have nothing to sell, who know nonetheless of this irrational need to believe in automatons, believe that they can sing and dance and play Chess,— even at the end of the Turn, when the latch is press’d and the Midget reveal’d, and the indomitable Hands fall still. Even as Monsieur Vaucanson furls back the last Silk Vestment,— no matter. The Axmen have a need for artificial Life as perverse as any among the Parisian Haute Monde, and this French toy, conveniently invisible, seems to— ”

  “Look out!” Dixon cries. Mason’s Hat leaves his head and ascends straight up to the Tree-tops, where it pauses, catching the rays of the Sun, just gone behind tomorrow’s Ridge-top. Faint Quacking is heard above.

  “Very well,” Mason calls, “ ‘Toy’ may’ve been insensitive. I apologize. ‘Device’?”

  Armand comes running out.” ’Tis being playful, nothing more. Ah, Chér-i-e,” he sings into the Sky. “I’ll guarantee their Behavior,— only please return the Gentleman’s Hat, Merci . . .” as the Hat comes down Leaf-wise, zigging one way, zagging another, whilst Mason runs back and forth anxiously beneath.

  “You’ll guarantee what?” Dixon wants to know.

  “Whilst advanc’d in some areas, such as Flight and Invisibility,” Armand explains, “yet in others does the Duck remain primitive, foremost in her readiness to take offense. You must have notic’d,— she has no shame, any pretext at all will do. As her Metaphysickal Powers increase, so do her worldly Resentments, real and imagin’d, the shape of her Destiny pull’d Earthward and rising Heavenward at the same time,— meanwhile gaining an order of Magnitude, in passing from the personal to the Continental. If not the Planetary.” Perhaps fortunately, no one present has any idea what he is talking about.

  “I should have puzzl’d more,” Mason now admits, “that Dr. Vaucanson was listed among those sent copies of Monsieur Delisle’s Mappemonde for the Transit of Venus, showing us the preferr’d locations for observing the Event,— arriv’d at the Royal Society in the care of Father Boscovich, years late, owing to the state of the Rivalry,— I assum’d as ev’ryone did, that the great Automateur, having an interest in the Celestial Escapement above, and the date of the Event being sure as Clock-work, had early announc’d his intention to observe the impending Alignment,— or even more simply, that he enjoy’d Esteem at the Académie. But between the Invention of the Duck, and the observation of the Transit, there lies yet a logickal Chasm, as a temporal one, thirty years or more in Width, with no Bridge of Syllogism for Reason to cross, condemn’d rather to roam upstream and down, in search of a way, her Journey delay’d indefinitely upon the nearer side,— ”

 
“The side of the Duck,” Armand reminds him.

  “Very well,— could it be, that in the Years since the Duck vanish’d, and despite the constant presence of the Duplicate the World knows, Monsieur Vaucanson, in his perusals of the Sky, has come to seek there wonders more than merely Astronomickal? For, having no idea of where or how far his Creature’s ’Morphosis may’ve taken it, where look for Word of its Condition with more hope of success than among the incorruptibly divided Rings of Heaven?”

  “Hold, hold,” Dixon with exaggerated gentleness, “Mason, he . . . believes his Duck to’ve become a Planet, ’s what tha’re saying?”

  “Why are you all edging away from me like that?” Mason’s voice pitch’d distraughtly. “For a few moments among the Centuries, we are allow’d to observe her own ’Morphosis, from Luminary to Solid Spheroid . . . I don’t know about you, but if I had a Duck disappear from me that way, I should certainly be attending closely the Categories of rapid Change, such as the Transit afforded, for evidence of the Creature’s Passage.” Even without the face full of discomfort Mason displays, Dixon would have understood this as yet another gowkish expression of grieving for his Wife.

  “Someone’s wrecking the Squash, I think,” Armand backing into the Cook-tent, colliding with young Hickman emerging with a stack of Pots and Pans headed for the Scullery, which all promptly go scattering in ev’ry direction, more than once passing but inches from people’s Heads.

  “Nothing personal,” both, nearly in unison, assure Mason.

  Such is the Duck’s Influence in the Camp, that several Axmen approach the Revd upon the Topick of Angels in general. “For instance,” carols young Nathe McClean, lately dazy for a Milkmaid of the Vicinity, “tho’ we know the Duck has been transform’d by Love, what of the Angels,— that is, may they . . . um . . .”

  “Aye, they do that, Lad, and they drink and smoke, and dance and gamble withal. Thought ev’ryone knew that. Some might even define an Angel as a Being who’s powerful enough not to be destroy’d by Desire in all its true and terrible Dimensions. Why,— a drop of their Porter? ’twould kill the hardiest drinker among ye,— they smoke Substances whose most distant Scent would asphyxiate us,— their Dancing-floors extend for Leagues, their Wagering, upon even a single trivial matter, would beggar Clive of India. And who’s to say that Human sin, down here, may not arise from this very inadequacy of ours, this failure of Scale, before the sovereign commands of Desire,— ”