Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Ahrrh!" He plucks from his Face a Beetle, about half an inch long and emitting green light as if bearing a Candle within. He rolls his Gaze wildly about,— all 'round him, all over Cape Town, as 'twill prove, these Insects, swept here over Mountains and Deserts, are falling. It is not a message from any Beyond Mason knows of. It is an introduction to the Rainy Season.
"What'd we respectfully request? Skanderoon, wasn't it? only to be anointed with the suppos'd contents of our cowardly Breeches, and sent here, where they know how bad the seeing is. What madness are they about? We'll be lucky to see the Sun here,— and how many Years will give us clear Nights enough to fix our Latitude and Longitude?"
"It wouldn't be like this in Skanderoon," Dixon agrees. "They say, 'tis nearly Europe there."
"Fabulous Skanderoon," sighs Mason. They are presently part-singing, to a sort of medium-tempo Cuban Rhythm,
Skan-deroon,
I'd rather be in, Skanderoon,
Tho' 'twould have to be quite soon,—
This June,—
In Skan-
Deroon!
Not far away,—
Lesser Asia, so they say,—
Minarets and Palms a-sway,
We might lounge about all day,—
Stuf-fing our Gobs,— With Turkish Delight,— Securing our Obs,— Then beginning, the Night...
Crescent Moon, Caravan, and Muezzin's Tune, I'll not be forgetting soon Souvenirs of, Skanderoon!
What a Hope. Rain rules now, and shall, until October. The Girls follow Mason one afternoon up to the Observatory, up onto the first slopes of the Mountain where they are forbidden ever to go,— "Father says because of the African Boys," they proclaim solemnly to Austra, who laughs merrily.
"Boys! Babies, rather. Stay close to me,— I'll protect you." She wishes to add, " 'Tis not with them your debit grows, but with the African Women from whom you take, take without pause or apology," but aloud says, "Just try to wear something over your Hair,— the only blond they see up where we're going is when the Kommando ride through, and the sight of it sometimes causes them to act in haste."
"I shall let mine blow wild," Els cries.
"Cover my Hair?" Jet astonish'd. "As, I haven't better things to do?"
"You'll want to keep it out of the Wind," says Greet.
"And end up with Shawl Hair? I think not, Greet." But they are by now too far ascended for her to return home unaccompanied. They are ascended into Africa. At some point all note that they can no longer hear the Town. That is all it takes, to deliver them into Africa. They can see the Bay, and the Sea beyond, and the Ships and Boats, but the girls have lost the Voices and Percussion and rough Breath of the Town,— they are of the Continent now, and the Town is a Spectacle in a Museum of Marvels, and the Rain-Beetles are in Song. And who gazes back upon it, too long or even too sentimentally, may never see it again. Or may turn to Salt, and be white for Eternity.
Mason, far ahead of them, an earthen Trudging among the Lanes, appears to be making for a curious, squat Cylindrick Structure with a Cone-shap'd roof, perch'd high enough to keep above the morning Fog,— or so the Astronomers hope.
; 'Tis a Gnome's House!" whispers Els.
Jet is gazing at the ends of large fistfuls of her Hair. "Look at these,— these should have been soaking in Egg-Whites half an Hour ago,— do you know what happens if I miss one day? They're already split beyond belief,— "
"Has anyone notic'd the Light?" inquires Greet. For the Sun is darkening rapidly, whilst striking to a remarkable Hellish Red all surfaces that not so long ago were reflecting the simple Day-light.
"What?— Never been this close to the Bull's Eye?" Austra smiles grimly. "Welcome to the Droster Republick, Misses. Up here, some believe the Bull's Eye lives, and goes about.. .selecting those it shall take."
"We must ask Mr. Mason for Shelter," cries Jet. They flee, all shivers and screams, a-splash up the hill-side to the Observatory just as the Storm breaks, arriving at the Door-Way soak'd through. Mason is not cowering, he will later explain,— tho' he is sorry if that's what it look'd like,— rather standing guard over the Instruments,— whilst Dixon, no less warily, opens the Door, and in tumble the Bunch of them, rowdy and wet.
The Carpenter of the Seahorse and his men have put up a structure solid as a Man o' War, tarr'd the Roof and all the joints, rigg'd a couple of Blocks in a Gun-Purchase Arrangement allowing the Gentlemen to slide the Shutter open and clos'd from inside. "Get her down to the Water, step a Mast, put up some Canvas, and ye may sail her home," the Carpenter assur'd them. It holds six snugly,— less awkwardly if, as Jet and Els now discover, two lie together upon one Astronomer's Couch,— as, promptly, do Austra and Greet, upon the other.
The storm drums at the Cone above, which sheds the Rain in Sheets. There is nothing to drink but Cape Madeira, a thick violet Liquid one must get thro' six or seven Bottles of even to begin to feel at ease. There is no Question of Working, all Drudgery Logarithmick having been brought up to Date, the Clock seen to, the Shutter-Tackle made secure.
"Now then," Mason rapping upon the Table's Edge with a sinister-looking Fescue of Ebony, whose List of Uses simple Indication does not quite exhaust, whilst the Girls squirm pleasingly, "as you young Ladies have been kind enough to visit during School-Hours, we must be sure that your Education advance upon some Topick,— wherefore our Lesson for today shall be, the forthcoming Transit of Venus."
Cries of, "Oh, please, Sir!" and "Not the Transit of Venus!"
"Then what in the World are thee up here for," Dixon's Eye-Balls ingenuously gibbous, "if not out of Curiosity as to what we do?"
They all take looks at one another, Austra at length detaching to smirk at Mason and cast her Eyes heavenward, where the Roar of the Storm goes on unabating. Her blond Procuresses all begin to expostulate at once, and Mason understands that the vocal assaults of the Vroom Poultry are not inborn, but rather learn'd in this World from their Owners.
"Ladies, Ladies," Mason calls. " - You've seen her in the Evening Sky, you've wish'd upon her, and now for a short time will she be seen in the Day-light, crossing the Disk of the Sun,— and do make a Wish then, if you think it will help.—
For Astronomers, who usually work at night, 'twill give us a chance to be up in the Day-time. Thro' our whole gazing-lives, Venus has been a tiny Dot of Light, going through phases like the Moon, ever against the black face of Eternity. But on the day of this Transit, all shall suddenly reverse,— as she is caught, dark, embodied, solid, against the face of the Sun,— a Goddess descended from light to Matter.”
"And our Job," Dixon adds, "is to observe her as she transits the face of the Sun, and write down the Times as she comes and goes...?"
"That's all? You could stay in England and do that," jaunty little Chins and slender Necks, posing, and re-posing, blond girls laughing together, growing sticky and malapert.
The Girls are taken on a short but dizzying journey, straight up, into the Æther, until there beside them in the grayish Starlight is the ancient, gravid Earth, the Fescue become a widthless Wand of Light, striking upon it brilliantly white-hot Arcs.
"Parallax. To an Observer up at the North Cape, the Track of the Planet, across the Sun, will appear much to the south of the same Track as observ'd from down here, at the Cape of Good Hope. The further apart the Obs North and South, that is, the better. It is the Angular Distance between, that we wish to know. One day, someone sitting in a room will succeed in reducing all the Observations, from all 'round the World, to a simple number of Seconds, and tenths of a Second, of Arc,— and that will be the Parallax.
"Let us hope some of you are awake early enough, to see the Transit. Remember to keep both eyes open, and there will be the three Bodies, lined up perfectly,— the Heliocentric system in its true Mechanism, His artisanship how pure." The Girls keep their Glances each looping 'round the others, like elaborately curl'd Tresses, trying to see if they should be understanding this, or,— being cruel young beauties ev'ry one,— even caring.
10
As Planets do the Sun, we orbit 'round God according to Laws as
elegant as Kepler's. God is as sensible to us, as a Sun to a Planet.
Tho' we do not see Him, yet we know where in our Orbits we
run,— when we are closer, when more distant,— when in His
light and when in shadow of our own making
We feel as com
ponents of Gravity His Love, His Need, whatever it be that keeps
us circling. Surely if a Planet be a living Creature, then it knows,
by something even more wondrous than Human Sight, where its
Sun shines, however far it lie.
- Revd Wicks Cherrycoke, Unpublished Sermons
"Show us upon the Orrery," suggests Pliny.
"I get to light the Sun," cries Pitt, dashing for the card-table, where the Tapers are kept in a drawer.
Tenebras finds herself, in the general convergence upon the Machine in the corner, quite close to her Cousin Ethelmer, who is trying to remember how old she is. He cannot recall her looking quite this,— he supposes, nubile. And how old does it make him, then? Briefly he beholds the gray edge of a cloud of despair, promises himself to think about it later, smiles, and sallies, "Remember the time you snipp'd off a lock of your hair, and we fashion'd it into a Comet, and placed it in the Orrery?”
"That grew back a long time ago, Cousin."
"When you were quite a bit shorter, as well. I almost had to sit down to kiss you hello. Yet now,— um, that is,—
"Dangerous territory, Sir."
"How so? an innocent peck upon the cheek of a child?"
"Had you thought to inquire of the Child," Tenebra;'s chin rising slowly, "you might have found your education further'd in ways unexpected, Thelmer." Ethelmer for a split second is gazing straight up into her nostrils, one of which now flares into pink illumination as Pitt's Taper sets alight the central Lanthorn of the Orrery, representing the Sun. The other Planets wait, all but humming, taut within their spidery Linkages back to the Crank-Shaft and the Crank, held in the didactic Grasp of the Revd Cherrycoke. The Twins, push'd to the back, content themselves with the movements of the outermost Planets, Saturn and the new "Georgian," but three years old. Dr. Nessel, the renown'd German Engineer, last spring show'd up unexpectedly in Philadelphia, having travers'd the Sea under wartime conditions, to add free of charge the new Planet to the numerous Orreries he had built in America. In each Apparatus, he fashion'd the Planet a little differently. By the time he got to Philadelphia, he was applying to the miniature greenish-blue globes Mappemondes of some intricacy, as if there were being reveal'd to him, one Orrery at a time, a World with a History even longer than our own, a recognizable Creator, Oceans that had to be cross'd, lands that had to be fought over, other Species to be con-quer'd. The children have since pass'd many an hour, Lenses in hand, gazing upon this new World, and becoming easy with it. They have imagin'd and partly compos'd a Book, History of the New Planet, the Twins providing the Wars, and Brae the scientifick Inventions and Useful Crafts.
"Here then," the Revd having smoothly crank'd Venus, Earth, and the Sun into proper alignment, "— as seen from the Earth, Venus,— here,— was to pass across the Disk of the Sun. Seen from Cape Town, five and a half hours, more or less, Limb to Limb. What Observers must determine are the exact Times this Passage begins and ends. From a great many such Observations 'round the world, and especially those widely separated north and south, might be reckon'd the value of the Solar Parallax."
"What's that?" Pitt and Pliny want to know.
"The size of the Earth, in seconds of Arc, as seen by an observer upon the surface of the Sun."
"Don't his feet get blister'd?" hollers Pitt, with his brother goading him on, "— isn't he too busy hopping about? and what of his Telescope, won't it melt?"
"All of these and more," replies the Revd, "making it super-remarkable, that thro' the magick of Celestial Trigonometry,— to which you could certainly be applying yourselves,— such measurements may yet be taken,— as if the Telescope, in mysterious Wise, were transporting us safely thro' all the dangers of the awesome Gulf of Sky, out to the Object we wish to examine."
"A Vector of Desire."
"Thankee, DePugh, the phrase exact." DePugh is the son of Ives LeSpark, like Ethelmer home on a Visit from School, in this case from Cambridge,— traveling the Atlantick to and fro by Falmouth Packet as easily as taking the Machine to New Castle. He has shown an early aptitude with Figures. God be merciful to him, silently requests the Revd.
Somebody somewhere in the World, watching the Planet go dark against the Sun,— dark, mad, mortal, the Goddess in quite another Aspect indeed,— cannot help blurting, exactly at The Moment, from Sappho's Fragment 95, seeming to wreck thereby the Ob,—
"0 Hesperus,— you bring back all that the bright day scatter'd,— you bring in the sheep, and the goat,— you bring the Child back to her mother."
"Thank you for sharing that with us...recalling that this is Sun-Rise, Dear, -Rise, not sun-Set."
"Come! She's not yet detach'd!"
"Let us see. Well, will you look at that." A sort of long black Filament yet connects her to the Limb of the Sun, tho' she be moved well onto its Face, much like an Ink-Drop about to fall from the Quill of a forgetful Scribbler,— sidewise, of course,— "Quick! someone, secure the Time,— This, or odd behavior like it, is going on all over the World all day long that fifth and sixth of June, in Latin, in Chinese, in Polish, in Silence,— upon Roof-Tops and Mountain Peaks, out of Bed-chamber windows, close together in the naked sunlight whilst the Wife minds the Beats of the Clock,— thro' Gregorians and Newtonians, achromatick and rainbow-smear'd, brand-new Reflectors made for the occasion, and ancient Refractors of preposterous French focal lengths,— Observers lie, they sit, they kneel,— and witness something in the Sky. Among those attending Snouts Earth-wide, the moment of first contact produces a collective brain-pang, as if for something lost and already unclaimable,— after the Years of preparation, the long and at best queasy voyaging, the Station arriv'd at, the Latitude and Longitude well secur'd,— the Week of the Transit,— the Day,— the Hour,— the Minute,— and at last 'tis, "Eh? where am I?"