Letters

by John Barth

  I could have wept for exasperation. I snatched it out, vowing to destroy it and write not another word to you. But an elderly lady watched me from her little jerry-built nearby; anyroad, what was writ was writ. And there was other mail waiting for you; no doubt you had business up in Buffalo, or were simply away from home for a few days. I rang you up again on the Wednesday, on the Thursday; hadn’t the heart to check whether my 18-pager still repines there with its two ounces of cancelled 1st-class postage. Friday forenoon we flew home.

  Now I read in this morning’s Baltimore Sun that tornadoes struck your region last night, sparing the old Chautauqua Institution but causing a million dollars’ damage elsewhere about the lake, parts of which have been declared disaster areas. Which shall I hope?

  Oh well: I hope that you and your property (my letter included) were spared, and that there is excellent reason, other than indifference on your part, why mine of the 14th lay unopened in your box, and why its troubled, sometimes anguished, often urgent predecessors have gone unreplied to, even unacknowledged, since March. Thomas Mann liked to say that with utter disgrace comes a kind of peace: no need for further striving to keep up appearances! I feel intimations of that peace. And I understand, better than formerly, Ambrose’s letters to the outgoing tide; anybody’s epistles to the empty air.

  Now it’s Saturday again, a few hours from the commencement ceremonies which I suddenly have dark misdoubts of. Ambrose is at the hospital with his mother, whose dying suddenly accelerated in midweek… and I need once more to write to you, not only whether you reply or not, but whether or not you even read my words.

  Here is what “Monsieur Casteene” told me six days ago, in the voice described in my last: almost too ready with his inside information to be believed, and so confiding that though I cannot refute a single of his details and must admit the total accuracy of everything he recollected (much more than I!) concerning our old connexion, I distrusted him absolutely. I take a deep breath; I plunge in:

  The man declares himself to be indeed, though Much Changed, the André Castine who first got me with child thirty years ago in Paris and again two years since at Castines Hundred. He declares that the high-spirited, loving disagreement with his apparently ineffectual father (Henri Burlingame VI), which I so well remembered from 1940, was in fact their ongoing cover throughout the war period for close cooperation, not on behalf of the Japanese and the Nazis—I didn’t ask him about those pre-Pearl Harbor messages to me from the Pacific—but on behalf of the U.S.S.R., whose alliance and subsequent rivalry with the U.S. they foresaw. More exactly, on the ultimate behalf of the Communist party in North America, and to the ultimate end of a Second Revolution in the U.S., which they saw more hope for if the war were less than an unconditional Allied victory.

  I simply report the news.

  Thus they were involved in attempts to sabotage the Manhattan Project, which they also opposed on general humanitarian grounds. Indeed, Deponent testifieth that his father was vaporised at Alamogordo, New Mexico, on the morning of 16 July 1945, in a last-ditch effort to thwart the detonation of the first atomic bomb: a martyrdom unknown to this day to any but “wife” and son, and now me, and now you. Thereafter, Casteene claims to have been involved in the supply of “atomic secrets” to the Soviet Union in the latter 1940’s and, in the early 1950’s, with the supply of compromising data to Senator McCarthy’s witch-hunters (to the end of “purging the C.P. of leftover liberals from the thirties” in preparation for its “new and different rôle in the sixties,” so declareth etc.). In 1953, a pivotal year, he comes to believe that his father’s beloved project has been misconceived; that political revolutions as such are not to be expected or even especially wished for in the overdeveloped countries at this hour of the world; that Stalinism is as deplorable as Hitlerism; etc. The 2nd Revolution, he decides, in American anyroad, will be a social and cultural revolution in the decade to come (i.e., the 1960’s); the radical transformation of political and economic institutions will either follow it in the 1970’s or become irrelevant. M. Casteene’s personal target date for the whole business, I simply report, is 1976.

  Still listening, John? Well: about that same time—I mean the middle 1950’s, while dear old Mann is telling yours truly in dear old Switzerland about the liberating aspect of utter disgrace—Deponent moveth to Maryland and setteth up as an arch right-winger named Andrew Burlingame Cook VI, which name is in fact as officially his from his father as is the name André Castine from his mother. He modifies his appearance (He can do it almost before one’s eyes, but never quite perfectly; then when he “returns” like Proteus to his “true” appearance, that’s never quite what it was before, either!); he pretends to be a blustering patriotic poetaster of independent means; he befriends Harrison Mack, claims distant cousinship to Jane Mack. He ingratiates himself with right-wing political figures in Annapolis, in Washington; he goes so far as to call himself the Laureate of the Old Line State—and is threatened with lawsuit, to no avail, by the actual holder of that post. He affiliates himself in various ways with Mr Hoover’s F.B.I, and Mr Allen Dulles’s C.I.A. That portion of the general public aware of his existence (and both his visibility and his audibility are as high as he can manage) take him for a more or less pompous, more or less buffoonish reactionary. A few—Todd Andrews, for example—believe that underneath the flag-waving high jinks is a serious if not sinister cryptofascist. And a very few—e.g., Joe Morgan, as I believe I reported some six or seven Saturdays past—suspect that in fact his reactionary pose is a cover for more or less radical left-wing activities. But only his son, Henri C. Burlingame VII—and now myself, whom alas he has had to keep too long and painfully in the dark—know that “A. B. Cook” and “André Castine” are, under contrary aspects, the same Second-Revolutionist.

  We are not done.

  In his latter thirties, Monsieur Castine/Cook researches the history of his forebears—those Cooks and Burlingames alternating back through time to the original poet laureate of Maryland and beyond—and prepares to draft a mock epic called Marylandiad, after the manner of Ebenezer Cooke’s Sot-Weed Factor poem. His motives are three: to reinforce his public cover; to gratify his genuine interest in that chain of spectacular filial rebellions; and to introduce “our” son properly to his paternal lineage. His researches are mainly on location at Castines Hundred, and inasmuch as he divides his time, with his identity, between there and the province of the Barons Baltimore, he avails himself also of the Maryland Historical Society—where, we remember, yours truly was first by A. B. Cook dismayed in 1961—and thus becomes acquainted with its then officials, one of whom he will subsequently recommend to Harrison Mack for the presidency of Tidewater Tech and later yet connive with John Schott to unseat from Marshyhope.

  You are yawning? You shall yawn no longer. “Cook” comes to know Mr Morgan’s background, the unfortunate events leading to Mrs Morgan’s death and Joe’s “resignation” from Wicomico Teachers College: information he will later make use of. Indeed, he discovers in 1959 that it has perhaps already been made use of, in a just-published and little-noticed novel by a young erstwhile Marylander now teaching in Pennsylvania. The plot thickens: Cook draws Morgan out on the parallels between His curriculum vitae and certain events and characters in The End of the Road. He learns that Morgan, a rationalist but nowise a quietest, is indignant to the point of seriously contemplating vaticide (if that term may be extended to cover fictionists as well as poets); what stays his hand is no scruple for his own well-being, for which he cares nothing since his wife’s death, but the possibility that after all the author may be innocent.

  Do I have your attention now?

  Cook scoffs, but Morgan stands firm; he and you have never been introduced. Despite the undeniable and disquieting parallels, in most ways your fiction doesn’t correspond to the actual events, not to mention the characters involved. Its author is not known to be either a dissembler or a brazen fellow: yet the one crossing of your paths had occurred right
there in the Historical Society library, just a few months ago! Morgan, appalled, had recognised you at once; the recognition was apparently not mutual. You worked busily there half an afternoon. With the worst will in the world, Morgan could detect not the slightest indication that you knew who the grim-faced official was who passed by you, ostensibly on errands of business, several times. If he had (so detected), he declared calmly, he’d have done you to death on the spot with his bare hands.

  Does Cook find such an unlikely coincidence hard to swallow? Then let him chew on this at-least-as-farfetched: a check of your table immediately upon your leaving it disclosed to Morgan that the subject of your researches was evidently the same as Cook’s own! There lay sundry volumes of The Archives of Maryland; facsimile editions of The Sot-Weed Factor and Sot-Weed Redivivus; divers other primary and secondary texts in the history of 17th-Century Maryland…

  Intrigued, our master intriguer volunteers to find out discreetly for Morgan, if he’s interested to know, whether you are guilty or innocent in the matter of your sources for The End of the Road, as he means to approach you forthwith to compare his information on Ebenezer Cooke & Co., and his literary project, with yours. Morgan shrugs: nothing will restore his late wife to him, and you had nothing to do with her demise. As good as his word (sic, sir, sic), Cook drives up into Pennsylvania and invades your undergraduate classroom on pretext of soliciting poetry readings in the area and meeting “fellow Maryland writers”; he distributes self-promoting handouts to your students, who are half amused, half annoyed by the blustering disruption—and after class, evidently in a different humour, he discusses with you the backgrounds and sources of your then two published novels and your work in progress. Returning to Baltimore, he reports to Morgan your claim to have derived the story line of The End of the Road from a fragmentary manuscript found in a farmhouse turned ski lodge in northwestern Pennsylvania. Cook himself is unconvinced: the anecdote is as old as the medium of prose fiction; surely you are pulling his leg, or covering your tracks.

  At this point in “Casteene’s” narrative I recall Morgan’s having remarked to Todd Andrews and myself that A. B. Cook had once offered to arrange a murder for him; that he had declined the offer but been enough convinced of its seriousness to believe Cook a genuinely formidable man with underground, perhaps underworld, connexions, the nature of which however was unclear. Had that offer been serious? I asked Casteene now.

  He smiled handsomely, almost like André: Such a thing is easy to arrange, my dear, the easiest thing in the world. In fact he had been, let us say, half serious: he was seriously exploring Morgan’s character, as a possible candidate both for the presidency of Tidewater Tech and, perhaps, for a certain role in the Second Revolution. But he had found the man not yet ready for that latter, and was in any case finally disinclined to your doing in, given your then current project. This project he regarded as of sufficient usefulness to persuade him to forgo his Marylandiad in its favour (he was anyhow too immersed in “action historiography” to bother seriously with composition) and bestow upon you his researches. Your Ebenezer Cooke, he declared, like the original sot-weed factor, needed a foil to his gullibility, a counter to his innocence, to heighten the comedy and deepen the theme: he made you a gift of his “cosmophilist” ancestor Henry Burlingame III, together with Captain John Smith’s Secret Historie and the Privie Journall of the first Henry Burlingame. In return, unwittingly, you would provide him with a point de départ for some future counterdocument to assist in the delicate conversion of “our son” to “our cause.”

  I conclude. Deponent sweareth that he has had no contact with you since that day in 1959. That he enjoyed your rendering of his material, but on the whole prefers actions to words. He regrets having later had to support ridiculous John Schott against Morgan in the Marshyhope power struggle (it had to do, as what has not, with the preservation of his precious cover), and is gratified at least to have been able to arrange (in his “Monsieur Casteene” aspect, under which he does whatever it is he does at the Farm) Morgan’s invitation to Amherst and subsequent enrollment in the cause of the Second Revolution. Even more, it Went Without Saying, he regretted—

  But no: I will not entertain you with the song and dance of this man’s regrets concerning my ordeal since 1940. He professed to be delighted at my new connexion, in whose favour he had been happy to have “A. B. Cook” decline the M.S.U. Litt.D. Further, he made bold to venture that Ambrose’s energetic flirtation with “Bibi,” at the Falls and the Farm, was owing to his unexpected rencontre with his ex-wife. Casteene counselled patience, even indulgence on my part; he would not, for example, in my place, attempt to compete for Ambrose’s favour by dressing beneath my age and dignity…

  Speaking of lovers: he trusted I would not mistake his own little arrangement with “Pocahontas” (he tisked his tongue at the outrageous smallness of the world) as anything but a physical-clerical convenience: what passed for his heart, I might be assured, was mine toujours, but he would never again presume any claim upon me after that painful reenactment, in 1967, of our original star-crossed intimacy. We were no longer young, n’est-ce pas? By the projected date of his life-work’s completion he would be nearly 60. And aside from the annotation and publication of those letters of Andrew Cook IV’s—his discovery of which, in Buffalo two years past, he regarded as both the unlikeliest and the happiest coincidence in a life fraught with improbability—he would ask nothing further from me ever.

  Here he brightened. “But we haven’t said a word about notre fils! Le Burlingame des Burlingames!”

  I stopped him. Indeed, at this point I put an end not only to our interview, but to our remaining connexion. Had the man been unequivocally André (but when was André ever so?) or unequivocally A. B. Cook, or unequivocally neither… But he was equivocal as those letters—which now, upon a sudden, strong, heart-heavy, but unequivocal impulse, I returned to him. Whoever he was, I told him, he was not who he’d been, nor whom I’d loved even as late as two years ago. And whoever, wherever our son was, he was as dead to me as my André, surely in part by my own hand. I did not share what seemed all about me to be an epidemic rage for reenactment. The second half of my life, or third third, I must hope would be different indeed from what had so far preceded it! I had no more to say to him; at this point I would have nothing to say to our son either, a 29-year-old stranger, should he be “restored” to me: such reconnexion must be principally an embarrassment to all parties. As he had observed, I was in love again, no more happily than before, but at least my troubles were of a different sort. Whatever the future held for me, it did not promise to be a recapitulation of the past, and I was prepared to settle for that.

  He bowed, kissed my hand. Thus we parted, I trust forever—though I quite expect some version of A. B. Cook to appear at this afternoon’s festivities, disclaiming any connexion with M. Casteene or involvement in the foregoing conversation. The gentleman was not pleased. In particular he bade me reconsider the matter of the letters: if neither our past intercourse nor our son retained importance for me, would I not at least abet in this small way a cause larger than either, the cause of the Second Revolution? In which Henri, if things were managed skillfully, might well play a major rôle?

  Bugger your Revolution, I’m afraid I said, and got out of there—that dreadful, spooky Farm, where the chief crop raised is ghosts of the past—and back to the Erie Motel.

  And, I wish I could say, back to my understanding and sympathetic Ambrose. But though my lover affirms with each insemination his resolve to marry me once I’m preggers and The Movie Thing is done, this past week has been the hardest of our history. On the Monday and the Tuesday, making the most of the rare sunshine, Prinz shot footage of the Chautauqua Institution, the lake itself, and the vineyard country round about, though Ambrose acknowledges that nowhere do these appear in your writings. Bats figured as prominently as actors, flitting around the Miller Bell Tower, the cupola of the old Athenaeum, and (I ventured to suggest) th
e belfries of Reg Prinz and Ambrose Mensch. The former had been enchanted by the latter’s passing mention of the obscure, winged ascent of the villain “Harold Bray” at the end of your Goat-Boy novel; and though I can attest that as of where I am therein (halfway through) it is nowhere suggested that that charlatan is Batman, so he seems to be becoming in the film. Prinz himself rappelled down the tower by Monday’s twilight in cape and domino to carry off Bea Golden (aptly cast as your nymphomanic heroine Anastasia) and make threatening squeaks at Ambrose in the role of, near as I can guess, Himself playing the Author dressed as Giles the Goat-Boy: sheepskin vest and a horned helmet borrowed from the Chautauqua Opera Company’s prop room, Wagnerian section.

  Perfectly preposterous, of course, and as aggressively unfaithful to the novel as Ambrose endeavours to be to me. I cannot make myself recount his pursuit of “Anastasia,” which, with Prinz’s obvious consent, no doubt even at his instruction, Bea permits, nay encourages, but does not (I believe, who am ready to believe the worst) yet reward. It is All Part of the Movie: but inasmuch as there is no discernible boundary between that wretched film and our lives, Ambrose’s conquest of her, when and if it occurs and whether on or off camera, will be Part of the Movie too, as is my ongoing humiliation. I hate it!

  On the Tuesday evening a cast party was organised which culminated in a triumphant fiasco, enlarged the cast by at least one lunatic more, and altered the direction of the movie’s “plot.” Prinz chartered the Chautauqua excursion yacht Gadfly III; caterers provisioned it with bar and buffet; the Baratarians—augmented by musician friends from the resident theatre troupe, all there for preseason rehearsals—piled merrily aboard, and we set out from the institute dock in the last light (swallows, bats, cameras!) for a nautical carouse. Imagine Our Surprise when we discover our skipper for the evening to be Someone We’ve Met Before: no, not André-Castine-Andrew-Burlingame-Cook, at least not apparently, but a chap whom Ambrose tells me I should remember from Harrison Mack’s funeral (my mind was on other things), which Mr Bray attended as a beneficiary of the Tidewater Foundation’s misguided philanthropy.