Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

  I went this way and that upon the balls of my feet, lace trimmings a-flutter, in tiny steps of Perplexity. “Chinaman? what Chinaman?”

  “One of the principal Duties of a Widow of Christ is to charm the Chinese. Soon you’ll begin your studies in their Language. Eventually you’ll go there for a year or two.”

  “China?”

  “Hold still.— Oui, ev’ryone here has serv’d upon that Station.”

  “You’ll love it,” cried Blondelle, “the food they eat there is delicious beyond belief,— Shrimps with Hot Chillies and Peanuts! Slic’d Chicken in Garlick and Black Bean Sauce! Cold Sesame Noodles! Sweet Biscuits with Messages folded inside upon Paper you can eat,— Ahh! making m’self hungry just thinking about it. . . .”

  The Wicked French Nuns all took a coördinated Dance-Step together, turn’d, and shook their fingers.

  “Basest form o’ Desire, Blondelle.”

  “Even to speak of it, suggests a failure of self-restraint I am all but oblig’d to report.”

  “Oh get on, ’ve ye never been starv’d for something that tastes like something, instead of this Gruel we’re ever fed?”

  “Nonetheless, Sister.”

  I took the moment to examine my new-adorn’d Limbs, running fingertips where I could not see, trying to be my own looking-glass. It earn’d me a slap and some time upon my knees. Charming the Chinaman was serious business ’round here. “Time to bind those Feet, Child.” It took a long time. I had never imagin’d my Feet as having quite so many distinct Parts, each able to feel in its own set of ways. . . . Chinese men, in my reveries upon the subject, grew more interesting as the binding proceeded. If this was what they lik’d . . .

  Brae has discover’d the sinister Volume in ’Thelmer’s Room, lying open to a Copper-plate Engraving of two pretty Nuns, sporting in ways she finds inexplicably intriguing . . .

  “Oh, hullo, Brae,— aahcck . . . um, well what’s that you’re reading? Hmm,” having a look, “something of Cousin DePugh’s, I guess.”

  She gazes at him, for what seems to him a long time. “You left it for someone to find,” she whispers at last.

  “Perhaps I’d only imagin’d my room safe from the eyes, however big and innocent, of curious Cousins.”

  “You’re full of Surprizes, ’Thelmer. Tho’ I remain unclear, as to why a young University Gentleman should find Affection between Women at all a topic of interest.”

  “Why . . . sure there may be Renderings more pleasant to look upon . . . the Western Country at Sunset, probably,— Scenes of Religious Life, Hunting-Dogs, a Table-ful of Food . . . yet if one of you, beheld intimately, be all but unbearably fair, you see, imagine the sentimental Delight into which a Man might be thrown, at the sight of two of you.”

  “More than twice as much, I’d guess, wouldn’t you?” “Oh, something exponential, I’ve no doubt,” her Cousin replies. “Besides that, ’tis the next in the Ghastly Fop series, I’m oblig’d in Honor to read them all in Line, ain’t I?”

  “Then you must first bring me up to Date, mustn’t you.”

  ’Thelmer blurts a Synopsis. “The Ghastly Fop. He’s seen at Ridottoes and Hurricanes, close to Gaming-Tables, as to expensive Nymphs. But he speaks to no one. No one approaches him. ‘Not I, thank you,— much too ghastly,’ is the postventilatory Murmur among the Belles attending. He is reported to be the Wraith of a quite dreadfully ruin’d young man come to London from the Country, who can return neither there, nor to the World of Death, until sizable Debts in this one be settl’d,— and to reside, tho’ not necessarily to live, in Hampstead.”

  The Ghastly F., true to his legend, is engaged in the long, frustrating, too often unproductive Exercise of tracking down ev’ryone with whom he yet has unresolv’d financial dealings. To some, he seems quite conventionally alive, whilst others swear he is a Ghost. That no one is certain, contributes to his peculiar Charm, tho’ Admirers must ever sigh, for but One Motrix commands his Attention and Fidelity,— the Account-Book. Some of those nam’d therein have cheated him of money he must collect, others are creditors whom he must repay, and so forth. On and on he goes, one to another, using these imbalances as a general excuse to pry into the finances of others, Fop-link’d or not. Some days he’ll find a two-for-one. The Series runs to at least a Dozen Volumes by now, tho’ no one is sure exactly how many,— forgeries have also found their way into the Market. Ghastly Fop sightings are increasingly reported, not only from Ranelagh or Covent Garden, but all over the Kingdom, Thornton-le-Beans, Slad, name your town, the Ghastly F. has either just been thro’ or is schedul’d to arrive at any Moment. In his largely Paper Vengeance, he not only traverses England, but the World of Commerce as well, righting Injustices in Grub-Street, prematurely exploding Bubble-Schemes, making wild raids upon the Exchange, Gambling Stacks of what prove to be only Ghost-Guineas, losing all, straightening his Wig, and vanishing before the admittedly sleep-denied Eyes of the Company.

  Somewhere, as some would say ineluctably, in this wealth-spangl’d Web, is a fateful Strand leading to the Society of Jesus. Of course, being a Financial Entity, Jesuits have the same difficulties with Stock-Jobbing, Land-holdings, Officials who may not stay brib’d for quite long enough,— that is, they seem submissive as any of us, before the commands of Time, tho’ their Wonderful Telegraph gives them in that Article an Edge over the rest of Christendom, who have still advanc’d no further in the Arts of the Distant Message, than training Courier Pigeons,— or small Hawks to seize those of others out of the Sky, and bring the Prey back to their Handlers, before being allow’d their own Enjoyment.

  “How far in the Book did you get?”

  “Up to where she meets the Chinese Boy, and they plan their Escape.”

  “Awkward time to break off.”

  “I heard you out in the Hall.”

  They stand quite close in the small upper room, Relations stash’d orthogonally all about, invisible tho’ now and then sens’d otherwise, behind wall-paper, plaster, laths, and scantlings,— Gazes attach’d,— unable, it dawns upon each, not to regard the other with just this steady Amusement.

  “Say, the next Chapter’s a Pippin,” Ethelmer whispers. “May I read it to you? Promise I’ll keep my voice down.”

  “Thoughtful as ever, ’Thel,” Brae looking about now for some item of Furniture to sit upon other than the Bed, and finding none.

  “We might sit upon the ‘Magickal Carpet’ in the Corner, as we did when children,” he suggests.

  “We might.” Adverting to the Bed, rather, with a sure domestick Touch she sweeps Pillows and Bolsters into a longitudinal Berm more symbolick than practickal, and lies down upon one side of it. “Let us have another Candle first,” says she, “that we not Ruin our Eyes in this Light.”

  “Nor fail to see in vivid Detail, what otherwise we’d merely have to imagine.”

  “Lament your own Imagination, Coz, but do not under-rate mine by quite so much.”

  “Say, nor’s mine that feeble, Brae.”

  “Shh. Read away,— and if I fall asleep, pray do nothing rude.”

  “Fear not. All will be done with Refinement.”

  “ ’Thel,— ”

  And so off they minuet, to become detour’d from the Revd’s narrative Turnpike onto the pleasant Track of their own mutual Fascination, by way of the Captive’s Tale.

  One night I dream that I have come to a Bridge across a broad River, with small settlements at either approach, and in its center, at the highest point of its Arch, a Curious Structure, some nights invisible in the river mists, Lanthorns burning late,— a Toll-House. Not ev’ryone is allow’d through, nor is paying the Toll any guarantee of Passage. The gate-keepers are members of a Sect who believe that by choosing correctly which shall dwell one side of this River, and which the other, the future happiness of the land may be assur’d. Those rejected often
return to one of the Inns cluster’d at either end of the Bridge, take a bed for the night, and try again in the morning. Some stay more than one night. When the Bills become too burdensome, the Pilgrims who wish strongly enough to cross, may seek employment right there,— at the Ale-Draper’s, or the laundry, or among the Doxology,— and keep waiting, their original purpose in wishing to cross often forgotten, along with other information that once seem’d important, such as faces, and their Names,— whose owners come now to my rooms to visit, and to instruct me in my Responsibilities, back wherever it is I came from. They say they have known me all my life, and seek to bring me away, “home” to where I may at least be seen to by Blood. Perhaps there is a young man, professing with the skill of an amateur actor to be my husband. “Eliza! do tha not recognize me? The little Ones,—” and so forth. Someone I cannot abide. Stubbornly, I look for some explanation of this Order to live upon a side of the River I’d rather be across from than on.

  “You’re bold, I’ll give ye that.”

  “I don’t belong on this side.”

  “What do you know of these things? Go back to your Husband.”

  “He is not my Husband.”

  “Had you cross’d this Stream, you would have liv’d a life of signal unhappiness. Go, and survive for long enough to understand the gift we have made you.”

  One night the Wolf of Jesus understands,— in one of those thoughtlessly fatal Instants,— that Zhang has been fluent in Spanish all the while. Zhang watches him remember, one by one, the many Utterances he has felt free to make, in the Chinaman’s hearing. The traditional next Step is simply to have Zhang dropp’d off the Roof during one of the night Drills,— the usual Tragedy. But then the Spaniard may see an opportunity to remove certain memories, and substitute others,— thus controlling the very Stuff of History.

  To any mind at all Inquisitorial, an appealing turn of Fate,— yet the Spaniard is disappointed, soon bitterly so, at Zhang’s willingness cheerfully to forget all he may have heard, to recite whatever catechism of the Past the Spaniard prefers. The Wolf of Jesus, perhaps never aware that Lies and Truth will converge, albeit far from this Place,— takes particular Pleasure in accusing Zhang of holding something back,— a Game which Mathematickally he cannot lose. “There was another such Remark. You remember it well. Damme if the Baton won’t part it from ye, along with some Skin,”— such mention of Torture increasing day by day, as if his Alternatives had narrow’d to it. ’Tis then Zhang begins to plan his Departure.

  Observing him, learning infallibly where he may be at any given Hour, she understands when he will leave, and in the instant decides to go with him,— dropping her Errands, as her Habit, stealing from the Indian Quarters a Boy’s Breech-Clout, Robe, and Leggings, finding an unus’d Confessional Booth, sliding her unbound feet into soft Moccasins, dressing in deer-skin,— hoping to be taken for a Boy, she joins Zhang, who, with no choice but to take her, pretends no interest in her bared limbs and sleek muscles ever in motion, as the Fugitives cautiously seek exit from the City, in a Departure as bound to the Terrain as her dream’d one had been sky-borne.

  In their Instruction of the Novices, the Jesuits spoke of early European Arrivals upon the Continent,— Winters, long and Mortal and soon enough productive of Visitants from beneath the Ice, have ever been among the Terms of Settlement here. This northern Desert was too cruel to winter in at all separately, the only way thro’ till Spring was to gather as many people as possible into a Hall. “The Disadvantage to this Method,” according to P. de la Tube, “being, that in crowded Quarters, one crazy Swede could lead to a deterioration in living conditions, up to and not excluding a House-ful of Corpses, come the Springtide.”

  What moral instruction does th’ American Winter bring them, hiding upon the stark hill-side, the River remote as Heaven, below? Jesuits on horseback, in black riding-Habits with divided Skirts, patrol the Streets. From some avian drama above, long black Feathers blow one by one down toward where the Battoes once landed to take the City. The Wind keeps remorselessly Northern, and she wraps herself as she may into the Robe. She understands, at some turn in this, that she has not yet pray’d,— nor should she pray, not now. That is over. This is a journey onward, into a Country unknown,— an Act of Earth, irrevocable as taking Flight.

  All the way down the River, keeping to the south shore, into Six Nations territory, not so much fleeing Jesuit pursuit, as racing their own Desire. One day, when they have gain’d the Mohawk, the Ice upon the River begins its catastrophic Rip and Boom, Blocks of it piling up into Pinnacles and Edifices, and Spring has caught up with them.

  Guided by Captain Zhang’s miraculous Luo-Pan, they proceed inland and south, to Fort Stanwix, and then on to Johnson Castle, above the Mohawk, arriving at the end of their Strength, moving down a Colonnade of Lombardy Poplars, slow as a Dream, observing about them Indian men smoking together in the clement Afternoon, or shaking Peach-Pits in a Bowl and betting upon the Results, whilst children ran about with Sticks and Balls and women sit together with their Work, and there he is, himself the Irish Baronet, wearing Skins, and a Raccoon Hat, out among his People, the Serfs of Johnson Castle, moving easily among the groups, switching among the English, Mohawk, Seneca, and Onondaga Languages as needed.

  The Chinaman presents him a curious sort of Metallick Plate, which Sir William scrutinizes, before relaxing into a less guarded Smile. The two exchange a complicated Hand-shake that seems to her to go on as long as an item of Town Gossip might, between Women. “And how is the old Pirate these days?”

  “He bade me remind you,— ”

  “— of that which, as a cautious man, you may not mention immediately. Good. Who’s this Lad with you? Bit weedy, ’s he not? Could use a couple of Bear Chops, fry him some Mush, few Pints of Ale, be well on the way to recovery.” Sir William approaches her. “Do you speak any English, boy?”

  “Little,” she whispers.

  Something alerts him. He takes her chin gently by the side of his Index, and raises her Face, and narrows his Gaze. “The way of a Warrior is not to be chosen lightly,” he advises her, “as a Girl might choose a Gown.”

  “She knew that,” says the Chinaman. “That is, he.— He knew that.”

  “It’s all right, Captain,” in what she’s surpriz’d to hear is her own Voice of old. “Sir, I am Eliza Fields, of Conestoga. This Gentleman has been kind enough to help me escape the French.”

  “Why bless me,— but he’s not an Indian, either!” cries Sir William Johnson. “I am reputed the Soul of Subtlety in these parts, yet am I now the Bumpkin,— well, even a Churl may be taught, Sir. Tell me. What’s the Story?”

  They tell him.

  “Then sure as Mahoney’s Mother-in-Law there’ll be a Jesuit Pursuit Party thro’ here, and soon. Don’t expect your Spaniard to wait for Summer. Blood that hot, they bring their own Seasons with ’em.”

  “I know him,” says Zhang. “He is very patient.”

  “Howbeit,— a few more Mohawks about can’t hurt. And you won’t stay here forever. Will ye?”

  “And you will of course present my Compliments to your Masonick Lodge,” Capt. Zhang twinkling resentfully.

  They arrange, thro’ Sir William, for a safe-passage as far down the Delaware as they will need. In all the journey, the Chinaman has never attempted to force his Attentions upon her. Any Relief she may feel is undone by her anxiety over when and how the subject will arise,— that is, come up,— that is, one night in an abandon’d Beast-pen in New-Jersey, as they hold one another for warmth, feeling reckless, she reaches down, as she has been taught by the Order, and discovers his Wand of Masculinity in earnest Erection.

  “Perhaps we’d do better to skip over this part,” gallant ’Thelmer suggests.

  “I’ve already read to the bottom of the next Page,” coolly replies Brae, “so there’s not much to do about it, save read on.”

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sp; Thro’ the Gloom, close enough for her to see, he smiles. Zhang does.

  “Now then, Zhang,” she whispers. “It’s been there ev’ry day. Hasn’t it.”

  “Yet,— observe.” And as if at his Command, it wilts, no less dramatickally than it arose.

  “What did I do?” she mutters.

  “Mistress, to you and me, any, what we style, in Chinese, Yin-Yang, is forbidden,” he tells her. “We were not born to play Theatrickal rôles assign’d us by others, for their Amusement.”

  “What are you talking about? The first man I approach in my life, and he says no. Aahhh!”

  “Attend me,— I get into a lascivious state now and then.— I’m Chinese all the time. That doesn’t make me a Lascivious Chinaman. Nor you, mutatis mutandis, a Debauch’d Heretick Maid.”

  “Yet,— suppose that’s what we really are. Really ought to be.”

  “As you will, Mistress. Meanwhile, either we are trying to escape these Assassins, or we’re not. Do you wish to return?”

  For a moment she is all in a Daze. Her Eye-Lashes a-cycle, “What contempt you must have for me. . . .”

  “On the contrary,” he whispers. “I adore you. Especially in that ’cute Deerskin Costume.”

  “Then . . . ?— ”

  “It’s a Sino-Jesuit Affair. Nothing you’d even wish to understand.”

  Well, then. Why didn’t Blondelle mention anything like this? In his Particulars, Zhang corresponds to few, if any, of her Mentrix’s detail’d Notions about the other Sex . . . Blondelle, whom she will never again climb into bed with as the cruel Rain assails the Windows. . . . That is, unless she be caught, and return’d. Somewhere in the Jesuit Maze, she’s been told, waits a special windowless Cell lin’d entirely in Black Velvet, upon which wink various bright Metal Fittings . . . a mysterious Space she has more than curiously long’d to enter . . . ’tis where they put the Runaways who come back. Who wish to come back. . . . Her thoughts thus in a whirl, she falls asleep in his Embrace, not waking till the Dawn of the cloud-drap’d Day, to feel him hard as ever, and press’d against her. She begins hoping they’ll find some population soon.