Authors: Thomas Pynchon
11
"The St. Helena of old had been as a Paradise," avers Euphrenia. "The Orange and Lemon-Groves, the Coffee-Fields,—
"Gone before your Time, Euphie."
"Does that mean I am forbidden to mourn them? They are mine as much as anyone's, to mourn."
"I'd be last to lay any sort of claim," says the Revd, "— whilst the Astronomers were sailing there from the Cape, I was journeying on, quite the other way, to India, and then past India— St. Helena was a part of the Tale that I miss'd, and along with it the Reverend Dr. Maskelyne, who has continued, even unto our Day, as Astronomer Royal, publishing his Almanack and doing his bit for global Trade."
"Something wrong with that, Wicks?" inquires Mr. LeSpark.
"Only insofar as it is global, and not Celestial," replies the Revd, with a holy Smirk master'd in his first week of Curacy.
The Merchant of Purposeful Explosion throws an arm across his Brow. "Your Halo blinds me, Sir. Aye, most Italian,— Joy of it, I'm sure."
"More of this Brandy ought to dim it some." Genial Uncle Lomax, grinning mischievously at his older Brother, pours the Revd another Beaker-ful. From outside, frozen Rain sweeps briefly yet pointedly at the glossy black Window-Panes.
"Then how are we ever to know what happen'd among the three of 'm upon that little-known Island?" Uncle Ives a bit smug, ev'ryone thinks.
"Well, let us see. Maskelyne was there the better part of a Year,— aware, from early on, that he could not obtain the Observations he wanted, owing to a defective Plumb-line suspension on the Sector, yet there, enisl'd, remaining,— twenty-nine years old, first time he's been away from home, and he's facing months in what proves to be,— those whose bed-time is nigh, stop your Ears,— an infamous Port of Call, quite alone in the mid-Atlantic, a Town left to shift as it may, dedicated to nought but the pleasures of Sailors,— which is to say, ev'ry species of Misbehavior, speakable and not."
"Tides and Lunars cannot have provided the Reverend Maskleyne full occupation,— one is understandably curious as to what else may've befallen him."
"Something must have," the Revd Cherrycoke agrees, "— else he should have emerg'd mad as all sooner or later go, upon that Island."
"An attack of Reason," suggests Mr. LeSpark.
"What's the Mystery?" Ethelmer shrugs. "Didn't Days take twenty-four Hours to pass, as they do now?"
Brae peers thro' the candle-light. "Why Coz, how interesting."
The idea, in making Port at St. Helena, is to keep to windward, get South-east of the Island, and let the Trade Winds carry you to the coast,— which you then follow, generally northward, till you come 'round to the lee side, and on into the harbor of James's Town,— where despite appearances of Shelter, the oceanic Waves continue to beat without ceasing, the Clamor wind-borne, up across the Lines and the Parade, all being reduced to Geometry and optical Illusion, even what is waiting there all around, what is never to be nam'd directly.
Once ashore, the Astronomers hear the Ocean everywhere, no Wall thick, nor Mind compos'd, nor Valley remote enough to lose it. It shakes the Ground and traverses the Boot-soles of the Watch, high in the ravines.The floorboards of Taverns register its rhythmick Blows, as they have the Years of Thumps from the swinging boots of Seamen whose destinies were sometimes to include Homicide, as if keeping Faith with that same Brutal Pulse, waiting upon a Moment, needing but the single sighting,— sworn to, vanish'd,— the terrible Authorization.
Tho' the sun nightly does set below the Island's stark horizon, what Mason sees, from his first Nightfall there, is Darkness, rising up out of the sea, where all the carelessly bright day it has lain, as in a state of slumber. . .whilst at dawn, that same Darkness, almost palpably aware of his Regard, appears to withdraw, consciously, to a certain depth below the Atlantick Surface. In the Astrology of this island, the Sun must be reckoned of less importance than Darkness incorporated as some integral, anti-luminary object, with its own motions, positions, and aspects,— Black Sheep of the family of Planets, neither to be sacrificed to Hades nor spoken of by Name....
Sirius, which Maskelyne remains here to observe, is the Island's Zenith-Star, as is Gamma Draconis for Greenwich. (Englishmen are born under the Dragon, St. Helenians under the Dog. At Bencoolen Mason and Dixon would have been under inconstant Mira, in the Whale. These signs are the Apocrypha of Astrology.) Ev'ry Midnight the baleful thing is there, crossing directly overhead,— the Yellow Dog. There inverted among the Wires, all but flowing. Treacly, as you'd say,— would even a Portsmouth Poll wear such a vivid, unhealthy shade of Yellow?
A very small town clings to the edge of an interior that must be reckoned part of the Other World. No change here is gradual,— events arrive suddenly. All distances are vast. The Wind, brutal and pure, is there for its own reasons, and human life, any life, counts for close to nought. The Town has begun to climb into the Ravine behind it, and thus, averaged overall, to tilt toward the sea. After Rain-Storms, the water rushes downhill, in Eagres and Riffles and Cataracts, thro' the town, rooftop to rooftop, in and out of Windows, leaving behind a shiv'ring Dog from uphill, taking away the Coffee Pot, till leaving it in its turn somewhere else, for a Foot-Stool,— thus bartering its way out to sea. The Horizon has little use for lengthy sunsets. Creatures of the Ocean depths approach the shore-line, as near as the little Coves where the water abruptly becomes Lavender and Aquamarine, remaining to observe, deliberate in their movements, without fear.
For years, travelers have reported that the further up into the country one climbs, the more the sea appears to lie above the Island,— as if suspended, and kept from falling fatally upon it, thro' the operations of Mys-terion impenetrable on the part of a Guardian.... As if in Payments
credited against the Deluge, upon no sure Basis of Prediction, the great Sea-Rollers will rise, and come against the Island,— reaching higher than the Town with the Jacobite Name, tho' perhaps not quite to the ridgeline above it. For anyone deluded enough to remain down at sea-level, there must come a moment when he finds himself looking upward at the Crests approaching. The Public Trees quite small in Outline below them. The Cannon, the Bastions, of no Avail. Did he choose, more prudently, to escape to the Heights, he might, from above, squinting into spray whose odor and taste are the life of the sea, behold a Company of Giant rob'd Beings, risen incalculably far away over the Horizon, bound this way upon matters forever unexplain'd, moving blind and remorseless across the Sea, as if the Island did not exist.
Not as spectacular, older residents declare, as the Rollers of '50. Then, it seem'd, 'twas the Triumph of a Sea gone mad, and the Island must be lost— Being part of a general Exodus to high ground, one may not pause for too long to gaze and reflect upon the fastnesses of empty water-plain, the Sun-glare through the salt Mists after the sleepless climb thro' the Dark,— the only Choices within one's Control, those between Persistence and Surrender. Within their first week upon the Island, all visitors have this Dream.
Out upon Munden's Point stand a pair of Gallows, simplified to Pen-strokes in the glare of this Ocean sky. A Visitor may lounge in the Evening upon the Platform behind the Lines, and, as a Visitor to London might gaze at St. Paul's, regard these more sinister forms in the failing North Light,— perhaps being led to meditate upon Punishment,— or upon Commerce...for Commerce without Slavery is unthinkable, whilst Slavery must ever include, as an essential Term, the Gallows,— Slavery without the Gallows being as hollow and Waste a Proceeding, as a Crusade without the Cross. Down at the end of the great Ravine that runs up-country from the sea, beneath the cliffs, along the Batteries, in the evenings, Islanders looking to catch the breeze will nightly promenade. If one ignores the guns darkly shining and the arm'd Sentries, the Island might be fancied an East Indiaman of uncertain size, and these crepuscular parades to and fro, a Passengers' turn upon her Weather-decks,— though at closer inspection each Phiz might suggest less a Traveler's Curiosity, than some long-standing
acquaintance with the glum, even among the women who appear, each Sunset.
Besides those resident here for purposes of Nautickal Amusement, the Birds of passage thro' St. Helena make up a mix'd flock,— Convicts being transported to the South Seas for unladylike crimes in England, with St. Helena one of the steps in their Purgatory,— young Wives on their way out to India to join husbands in the Army and Navy, a-tremble with tales, haunting the Day like a shadow from just beneath the Horizon ahead, of the Black Hole of Calcutta,— and Company Perpetuals, headed out, headed home, such shuttles upon the loom of Trade as Mrs. Rollright, late of Portland, who keeps opium in her patch-box and commutes frequently enough upon the India run to've had four duels fought over her already, though she has yet to see her twenties out. Almost to a woman, they confess to strange and inexpressible Feelings when the ship makes landfall,— the desolate line of peaks, the oceanic sunlight,— coming about to fetch the road, losing the Trade-Wind at Sugar-Loaf Point, hugging the shore and playing the eddies, the identickal Routine, 'twas 0 G-d are we here again,— whilst to First-Timers another Planet, somehow accessible from this.
"There's one a-sop with the Dew," Dixon remarks, "- - in the Claret-color'd Velvet there, with the Chinese Shawl, and the Kid Boots...? She seems to recollect thee, for fair."
"Tyburn Charlie! well prick me with a Busk-Pin and tell me 'twas all a Dream. 'Tis I,— little Florinda! Yes, you do remember,— but last Year,— " and she sings, in a pleasant Alto,
'Twas the Fifth Day of May, in The Year of our Lord, Seven--Teen hundred sixty and Zero, That the Brave Lord Ferrers Ascended the Steps, of The Scaffold, as bold as a Hero...
Mason amiably joining in, they continue,
'I am ready,' said he, 'If you'll
Quote me your Fee,'— to the
Cruel Hangman's Eye sprang a Tear-oh,—
'Of your silver-trimm'd Coat,
I'll admit I made note,
But must no longer claim it, oh dear, oh!'
[Refrain]
'0, my, 0 Dear 0!
You must think I've the morals of Nero!
Be it dangle 'em high, or strangle 'em low,
Hangmen have Feelings, or didn't ye know?'
The year after Rebekah's death was treacherous ground for Mason, who was as apt to cross impulsively by Ferry into the Bosom of Wap-ping, and another night of joyless low debauchery, as to attend Routs in Chelsea, where nothing was available betwixt Eye-Flirtation, and the Pox. In lower-situated imitations of the Hellfire Club, he hurtl'd carelessly along some of Lust's less-frequented footpaths, ever further, he did not escape noting, from Pleasure,— the moonlight falling upon the lawns, the trees, the walks, claiming the color of desire, as to represent all that Passion, seething within that small corner of Town, the music through the leaves, each washed in moon-white,— to the Fabulators of Grub-Street, a licentious night-world of Rakes and Whores, surviving only in memories of pleasure, small darting winged beings, untrustworthy as remembrancers...yet its infected, fragrant, soiled encounters 'neath the Moon were as worthy as any,— an evil-in-innocence—
("Uncle, Uncle!"
"Hum, hum, howbeit,—
"Another Cup, Sir?")
'Twas then that Mason began his Practice, each Friday, of going out to the hangings at Tyburn, expressly to chat up women, upon a number of assumptions, many of which would not widely be regarded as sane.
Rol-ling out the Edge-ware Ro-o-oad,—
To where they climb a Ladder-to-go, to sleep,—
The crowd is all a-tiptoe and the skies are bright, 'tis
A lovely day to come and have a Peep.—
He'll drop right thro' the Floor [tick-lock]
He'll dance upon the Air [knock-knock]
Whilst 'neath the Deadly Never-Green
'Tis merry as a Fair,— and
If you're luc-ky to be short enough,
With no-place much to stare,
Why, you might not even know, you're, there...
Turn'd thirty-two but days before, Mason, as a gift of Festivity to himself, attends the much-heralded Hanging of Lord Ferrers for the murder of Johnson, his Steward. What seems the entire world of Fashion has assembl'd, with each trying to outdress ev'ry other. Nonce-Hats, never before seen, many never to be seen again. Wigs as elaborately detail'd as Gowns. Coats especially commission'd for the occasion, with a classic Thirteen-Turn Noose Motif to the Braiding, and the Smoking Pistol depicted in Gold Brocade. As Mason, feeling shabby, curses himself for not having worn a more stylish outfit, he notes a young Woman observing him,— when he meets her Gaze, she immediately switches it away with a look of annoyance, not with Mason, it pleases him to fancy, so much as with herself, for happening to be the one caught staring,— there being scores of good reasons why no further degree of Fascination will develop from this. Judging by her escort, she's some rising Beauty of the Town, whose Looks more than excuse an absolute lack of taste in any matter of Costume, whilst at the same time she finds herself mysteriously drawn to snuff-color'd and, frankly, murkier Statements, such as Mason's, here.
"Hallo, d'you think he'll get much of a hard-on, then?" is her Greeting. "They say that agents of Lady F. are about, betting heavily against it."
Mason gapes in despair. He'll be days late thinking up any reply to speech as sophisticated as this. "In my experience," he might say, " 'tis usually the Innocent who get them, and the Guilty who fail to."
"How very curious." She will not blink, tho' her nostrils may flare. Her escorts will titter,— and her little Dog Biscuit, alone scenting her onset of interest, will begin to act up. "Could Remorse ever really unman any of you?"
"Why no.—
'Tis rather that Surprize invigorates us."
Flirtatiously, she scowls, as Mason goes rattling on morosely,— "Take the noted Highwayman Fepp, but last week, most likely not insane, being mov'd by the Mathematicks of his wealth, or rather lack of it, more
than by any criminal Passion,— the Membrum Virile was remarkably flaccid, at least according to the Jobbers who cut him down,—
"And subsequently up," chirps the Maiden.
- for consider that the Murderer cannot, in the Moment, know the ecstatic surprise of the Innocent, having borne within him, from Life's beginning, an acquaintance with the sudden Drop and Snap of its End. He dreams about it, sometimes when awake. He commits his fatal Crime out of a need to re-converge upon that blinding moment where all his life was ever focus'd—"
Her eyes have grown enormous and moist,— the Bodice of her Gown squeaks gently at its Seams, her Modesty-Piece flutters as if itself per-plex'd. The Fops accompanying her having been freed to resume their chief interest, the Exchange of Gossip, even Custodial Eyes are elsewhere. "Sir," she murmurs, "I have ever sought a man such as yourself— " There is a sudden roar from the crowd, half for and half against, as His Lordship's carriage arrives, and the fourth Earl steps out. Seamen throw unchewable Sausages and half-eaten scones, brightly dress'd Women throw Roses. "Hideous suit," remarks one of the Fops, "— what's that Shade, some kind of Fawn? altogether too light for the occasion." "I do like the Silver bits, though," comments his Friend, Seymour. All manner of retainers in black livery bustle about, the one attracting the most Notice being the Rope-bearer,— for 'tis rumor'd that Lord Ferrers is to be hang'd, at his request, with a Rope of Silk. The bearer is a slight figure in black velvet, whose skin in the high sunlight appears paper-white. All the way from the Tower, atop the bright jinglings of the Carriage,— expensively encrusted and plated by highly-paid Italians,— like a Miniature propell'd, in its strange slow Progress, by some invisible Child,— is the fatal Rope held aloft, perfectly white upon a black Silk Cushion, for the inspection of all the straining Eyes. "Well it's still 'emp for me," someone remarks, " - all things being equal, if not all Men."
"Aye, Silk's what they fancy out in India, with their Thuggee,— over the wall, in your Window, kkkk! Job's done, another tasty Bite for old Kalee,— that's their Goddess, as you'd say. Silk,— it's scarcely there, and yet...”
"Kkkk!"
"Precisely my point."
Orange-girls and beggars, ale-pots, gaming in the Dirt, purses wafted away, glances intercepted, dogs bravely a-prowl for Scraps, as hungry Blademen for Dogs, Buskers wandering and standing still, with a Wind from the Gallows bringing ev'ry sigh, groan, and Ejaculation over the heads of the crowd to settle upon their hearing like Ash upon the Hats of spectators at a Fire, the Day wraps and fondles them as Mason and the temporarily heedless beauty move together thro' the crowd, till they reach a Barrow with Awnings rigg'd against the Sun. "Wine!" cries she, "oh let's do!"
"This Chateau Gorce looks interesting," says Mason, "although, as the day is mild, perhaps a chill'd Hock would be more...apropos."
"If not de Rigueur," she replies.
"But of course, Chérie." They laugh at the Piquance of these Mots, and sip Wine as the imbecile Peer goes along toward his Doom,— till some kind of problem arises with the new Trap-door Arrangement, today's being its first Use at any publick Proceeding.
"These frightful Machines!" she pretends to lament, "— shall our Deaths now, as well as our Lives, be rul'd by the Philosophers, and their Army of Mechanicks?"
"That Trap's probably over-constructed," Mason has already blurted, "hence too heavy, and bearing sidewise upon the Lever and Catch,— He notes a sudden drop in the local Temperature.
"You are...a man of Science, then?" looking about, tho' not yet with Panick.
"I am an Astronomer," Mason replies.
"Ah...existing upon some sort of Stipend, I imagine. How...wonderful. . .I'd taken you for one of the better sort of Kiddy, the way you were turn'd out, quiet self-possession, I mean, one usually is able to tell,— alas, 'tis just as Mr. Bubb Dodington warn'd me,— 'Florinda,' said he, 'you are too young to appreciate men either in their wide diversity, or for the pitiable simplicity of what they really want. Can you guess what that is, my Wren?' His Wren. Well,— it might've been one thing, mightn't it,— and then again— "Excuse me, did I hear you, I'm sure inadvertently, mention that you receive...Assessments of Character, from Bubb Dodington? the ancient Fitch of legend? That relick from a signally squalid Era in our Nation's Politickal History,— that Bubb Dodington?"
"Georgie is a particular Friend," she flares, in a way that suggests Experience upon the Stage. "If he may advise the Princess of Wales as to matters constitutional, he may advise me, whatever he wishes. He grows older, and a life of super-human excess is at last presenting its Bills,— whose demands turn ever harsher with the days,— even at the Interest, yet a Bargain. Will you have as much to say, Star-Gazer, when it is your time?"
Mason lets his Head drop, abjectly. "There's one, says Pearse, as he
fell in the Well
The truth is, Madam, that I have envied your Friend
the honesty of his Life. Tho' being an Earl help'd, of course,—
"If you mean that you envy his openness as to his Desires,— I collect there are things you yourself may wish to do, that you haven't quite the Words for?" And gazing at him quite steadily, too.
"I?" Mason's Soles beginning to ache, his Brain unable to muster a thought. What he does not, consequently, understand, is that, having reckon'd him harmless, she has decided to get in a bit of exercise, in that endless Refining which the Crafts of Coquetry demand, using Mason as a sort of Practice-Dummy.
"You did have me going, Florinda."
"Well I hope so, I'm sure. Tell me, then,— are you still gazing at the Stars for Simpleton-Silver?"
"You remember that?"
"Why, you're not saying, Charlie, that there are too many Men in my Life for me to remember? Surely 'tis not the aggregate Total of all Men, but how many kinds of Men, that matters?— and that Figure is manageable, thankee."
James's Town, snug in its ravine, the watchfires high above keeping the nights from invasion, settles into the darkness. Smells of Eastern cooking pour out the kitchen vents of the boarding-houses, and mix with that of the Ocean. The town is for a Moment an unlit riot of spices, pastry, fish and shellfish, Penguin Stuffatas and Sea-Bird Fricasees. Upon the swiftly
darkening sea-prospect, in outline now appears a Figure that lacks but a Scythe in its Grasp, to turn all thoughts upon the Brevity of Life. "Dad-dums!" she cries. "Over here! Charlie, my fiance, Mr. Mournival."
"I meet so many of Florrie's old Troupe," the tall cadaverous Personage, whose Eyes cannot be clearly seen, hisses in the Twilight. "Charlie, Charlie.. .You must have been one of the Zanies?"
"Your Theatrical sense,— uncanny Sir," murmurs Mason. "Allow me to present my co-adjutor, whose repertoire of Jest is second only to what resides in the Vatican Library,— Mr. Dixon."
"A Chinaman, a Jesuit, and a Corsican are riding up to Bath...”
Mason, Dixon, and Maskelyne are in a punch house on Cock Hill called "The Moon," sitting like an allegorickal Sculpture titl'd, Awkwardness. It is not easy to say which of them is contributing more to sustaining the Tableau. Mason is suspicious of Maskelyne, Maskelyne struggles not to offend Mason, and Dixon and Maskelyne have been estrang'd from the instant Dixon, learning of Maskelyne's Residence at Pembroke College, Cambridge, brought up the name of Christopher Smart. "Durham Lad...? He became a Fellow at Pembroke...?" A Gust of Panic crosses Maskelyne's face briefly, then his Curatickal Blank returns. "Mr. Smart was our perennial Seaton Prize-winner.—
He left two years after I arriv'd,— our Intimacy being limited to Meal-times, when I brought his Food to the Fellows' Table, and fetch'd away his soil'd Napery and his gnaw'd Bones. Sometimes, after they'd all gone, we of the Scullery would eat their Leavings,— his may have been among 'em, I did not distinguish closely,— I was a Lad, and not all aware of how uncomfortable a Life it must have been. To live at Cambridge, to step where Newton stepp'd? I would have become a servant's servant."
"Newton is my Deity," Dixon rather blurts, ignoring Maskelyne's efforts to show polite astonishment by raising one eyebrow without also raising the other, "and Mr. Smart, why I knew him when I was small, a rather older Lad, who came to Raby on his School Vacations, his Father being Steward of the Vane Estates down in Kent, You see, as was mah Great-Uncle George of Raby." Maskelyne now has his Eye-balls roll'd to Heaven, as if praying for Wing'd Escape. "So both of us quickly learn'd our way 'round the Larders, the trysting places, the passageways inside the Walls, where our Errands often took us, Mr. Kit's being usually to or from the Chapel. I can recall no-one marking in him any unkind moment,— tho' he did seem, each time he return'd to Raby, a bit more preoccupied."
"In 'fifty-six, I believe, he was confin'd in a Hospital for the Insane," says Maskelyne, his Field-Creature's Eyes a-sparkle. "And releas'd, I have heard, the Year before last, mad as when he went in."
"Why aye," Dixon grimly beams, "it must have been thah' Raby Castle, that did it to him...?"
"Well it certainly wasn't Pembroke," Maskelyne sniffs. "Indeed, 'twas only when poor Smart gave up Cambridge, that his mind began to leave him."
"Away from those healthy Surroundings...?" Dixon replies, with clench'd Amiability.
There is Commotion as the Landlord, Mr. Blackner, and several Regulars, leaning to hear, lose all idea of their centers of Gravity, and staggering in the puddles of Ale that commonly decorate the Floor of The Moon, go crashing among the furniture.
Mason, as if newly arriv'd, speaks at last. "Forget not London itself, as a pre-eminent author of Madness,— Greenwich to Grub-Street, the Place is not for ev'ryone,— drawn tho' we be to the grandeur, the hundred Villages strewn all up and down the great Inlet from the Sea, and the wide World beyond,— yet for many, the Cost, how great."