Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Oh...he should watch out for it, too...?"
"Ahr..."
"I am resolv'd upon no further criticism of any Brother Lens," Dixon with eyes rais'd sanctimoniously. "Even one to whom Right Ascension may require a Wrong or two.—
Howbeit, thoo know him better than I...?"
"You seem to be saying, that I should look out for myself."
"Did Ah say than'? Ah didn't say thah'...?" as he sees Mason's head begin its slow lateral Reciprocation, "thoo said thah'."
"Thankee, Dixon. Always useful, talking these things over. Well. Convey my warm sentiments to any there who may yet feel such for me."
"Thah' won't take long."
"Mind y'self, Jere. Mind the Clock."
"See thee at Christmastide, Charlie.”
Intent upon picking his way back over the wet Rocks to the Sea-Steps, ascending with the same care, Mason doesn't notice Maskelyne till he's ashore and nearly upon him. It seems an odd place to find him, unless he's here for the departure of a ship,— and upon this Tide, only Dixon's is bound away. Withal, Mason doubts that he wishes to be seen,— his Eyes, on detecting Mason, performing a swift Passado.
"My Early Stroll," he greets Mason. "Up most of the Night, anyway, Stargazer's Curse. Mr. Dixon and the Clock successfully embark'd, I trust."
Mason nods, gazing past the little Harbor, out to Sea. None of his business where Maskelyne goes, or comes,— God let it remain so. The Stars wheel into the blackness of the broken steep Hills guarding the Mouth of the Valley. Fog begins to stir against the Day swelling near. Among the whiten'd Rock Walls of the Houses seethes a great Whisper of living Voice.
"Shall we enter again the Atlantick Whore-House, find Breakfast, and get to work?"
At this hour, Lanthorns through Window-Glass beckon ev'rywhere. "It certainly isn't Cape Town," Mason marvels. Sailors a-stagger, Nymphs going on and off Shift, novice Company Writers too perplex'd to sleep, Fish-Mongers in Tandem with giant Tunas slung betwixt 'em con-sid'rately as Chair riders, Slaves singing in the local patois, Torches a-twinkle ev'rywhere,— and no Curfew. John Company, unlike its Dutch counterpart, recognizes here the primacy of Tide Tables, and, beyond them, of the Moon,— ceding to her de facto rule over all arrivals and departures, including Life and Death, upon this broken Island, so long ill us'd.
They cross the Bridge, go along the Main Parade, the Waves ever beating, and past the Company Castle, pausing at the bottom of the principal Street. "Tho' small in secular Dimensions," Maskelyne gesturing in at the Town, "yet entering, ye discover its true Extent,— which proves Mazy as an European City...no end of corners yet to be turn'd. 'Tis Loaves and Fishes, here in James's Town, and Philosophy has no answer." He appears lucid and sincere.
"Then" (Mason, as he reviews it later, should likely not have blurted) "if someone wish'd to disappear for a while, yet remain upon the Island,- "
The bright eyes begin to blink, as if in some Code. "Of course, forever would be easier,— because of the Sea, that is."
Mason isn't sure he wants to know what this means. "Of course, but, say for a Se'nnight?"
' 'Twould depend who's in Pursuit."
"Say, Honorable John."
"Hum. The first two or three days'd be easy,— assuming one had a perfect knowledge of the Town and the Island,— for the initial Search-Parties would be of younger Writers and 'Prentices, too new here to know even the Castle in its true Extension, disruptive lads, intimidating, alerting ev'ry Soul to the Imminence of a Search Island-wide,— that is, thro' this entire World,—
"You've, ehm, certainly thought this out...."
"You were inquiring upon your own Behalf, I'd assum'd.... No need for me to disappear. Oh, Dear, the Royal Soc's quite forgotten all about old N.M., Esq. Lounging his life away waiting at the King's Expense for the Home Planet to move along. But now at the very Instant there is work to be done at last, the Heav'ns have provided me—
"Yes?" inquires Mason, pleasantly enough.
"— a veteran Astronomer, with a brilliant Success to his Credit, to share in my simpler, meaner Duties.”
"Mr. Waddington, I collect, being...somehow unavailable for the Honor."
Maskelyne shrugs. "No sooner did the Planet detach from the Sun's further limb than 'twas D.I.O. for Mr. Waddington."
Waddington left, in fact, three weeks after the Transit. "I don't do Parallaxes of Sirius, I don't do Tides," he mutter'd as they made their Farewells, "I don't do Satellites of Jupiter, all it says in my Contract is one Transit of Venus,— and that's what I did. If you wish me to observe the next, there'll have to be a new Contract."
"Easy Passage to ye, Robert," replied Maskelyne equably, "moonlit Nights and successful Lunars all the way," as he turn'd, toward the Town, and the Whores' Quarter again by the little Bridge, and the somber Cleft of the Valley ascending in back of it all, to go and re-engage with his Tasks.
"This Island," Maskelyne sighs, " - not ev'ryone's Brochette of Curried Albacore, is it?" Waddington express'd his displeasure upon their Indiaman's first sight of Lot and Lot's Wife, and the grim Company Fort at Sandy Bay,— not a Day of his Engagement was to pass, without the Island providing new ways to disappoint him. Too few Streets, too many Stares, the Coffee seeming to him adulterated with inferior Javas, obviously broken from Company Cargoes by enterprizing Pursers—
"Surely not," Mason alarm'd.
"Be easy. 'Twas his Phantasy. Afterward, appearing before the Royal Society, he prais'd St. Helena, and its Governor, very extravagantly and generously, having withal, on the way Home, got his Lunars beautifully,— the Captain forgave him the cost of his Passage, they came that near,— tho' the Weather grew so thick at the end that they were all the way in to Portland Bill before anyone saw Land, Waddington being heard to let out a heart-felt cry of Joy, that at least he'd liv'd to see England again."
"I must try to honor his precedent," Mason supposes, "mustn't I."
"You mean you won't help me with the Tidal data either? A couple of Sticks to be set in the Water, where's the Hardship?"
"I meant, rather, that I must obtain Lunars in quantity and of a Quality to match. If I weren't intending to help, I should have sail'd with Dixon, away from this,— that is,—
"Pray you. There is no Comment upon the Island so unfavorable, that I've not heard already from Waddington, or utter'd myself. For a while I firmly believ'd this Place a conscious Creature, animated by power drawn from beneath the Earth, assembl'd in secret, by the Company,— entirely theirs,— no Action, no Thought nor Dream, that had not the Co. for its Author. Ha-ha, yes imagine, fanciful me. I tried to walk lightly. I did not want It feeling my Foot-Steps. If I trod too hard, I would feel It flinch. So I try not to do that. So might you. All, even the large population here of Insane, go about most softly. What Authority enforces the Practice? Governor Hutchinson? The Company Troops? I suggest that more than either, 'tis the awareness of living upon a Slumbering Creature, compar'd to whose Size, we figure not quite as Lice,— that keeps us uniquely attentive to Life so precarious, and what Civility is truly necessary, to carry it on. Hence, no Curfew. To live, we must be up at all hours. Every moment of our Waking, pass'd in fear, with the possibility ceaseless of sliding into licentiousness and squalor,—
"Ah! Well now ye've brought the Topick up,—
"Sir. Ye may speak lightly in London of these things, but here we may, only at our Peril. You have not yet seen Squalor, Sir,— be advis'd that you now live in the Metropolis of that Condition."
Mason is sweating heavily, thinking, Dixon has left me alone here with a dangerously insane person. And, and why did Waddington really have to leave so quickly? Hey? Fool?— why, 'tis plain as Day, his Departure had Panick written all over it! Obviously, one must live in perpetual caution, here, never to Alarm Maskelyne. Ahhrr....
Mason begins by trying to slow down his usually convulsive shrugging. "I'm...but newly come."
"What are you saying? Hey? That I should have left with Waddington? How? Why are you caressing your Hat so forcefully? Obs of Sirius must be taken as far apart as possible, mustn't they,— at least six months of what the World no doubt sees as Idleness, whilst the Planet, in its good time, cranketh about, from one side of its Orbit to the other, the Base Line creeping ever longer, the longer being the better.. .how is any of that my fault?" Is he expecting an answer? They have pass'd thro' the level part of the Town, and begun to climb.
"You think me neglectful?" Maskelyne with an unsettl'd frown. "You can tell me freely, how I seem to you. Alone in this place, how am I to know anything, even of how I look? Wore my Wig for a while, but ev'ry-one gave it such queer Stares? There's not a Looking-Glass of any useful size 'pon the Island. Too luxurious to merit the Lading. No one here knows how he appears to anyone else, save for some Maidens down by the Bridge, who are said to possess Rouge-Boxes with miniature mirrors set inside the Covers, that allow them to View their Features, tho' one at a Time. All that is not thus in Fragments, is Invisible. And if my Character as well be experiencing some like 'Morphosis, some Veering into Error, how am I to know? Perhaps you are sent, upon this Anti-Etesian Wind unbearable, as Correction,— to act as my moral Regulator.—
How we've all long'd for one of those, hey?"
With any number of ways to respond to this, Mason chooses a Silence, which he hopes will not be taken as unsociable, and they climb on.
As the Island's only Harbor out of the Wind, James's Town knows slumber but fleetingly. Sailors speak of it, before and after coming ashore, as of a place visited in an Opium Dream. Musick ev'ry time a Door or shutter comes open, Torches trailing scarves of flame ever rising. Chuck-farthing players in the Alley-way. Ornamental Lanthorns scarcely bigger than the Flames they hold, dangling from the Wrists of young Ladies with business at this Hour,— "All the Rage in Town just now," Maskelyne assures Mason. "These Girls flock to the Indiamen as much for the Shopping, as for the Sailors,— taking up one novelty upon the next, discarding each as lightly as they choose another.. .a mix'd lot, as you see, African.. .Malay.. .the odd Irish Rose—"
"Oo Reverend, who's your attractive friend?"
"Now now, Bridget
Yes, a lovely Day to you,— " waving amiably.
"Not that one ever lacks for wholesome Activities, here, one can pick-nick up the Valley. Visit Sandy Bay. Improve one's mind, study Vortices, learn Chinese. Drink." He pretends now to reel in astonishment before an Entry, in a Wall more Brick than Lime, above which swings a Sign depicting a White Luminary with the face of a Woman of the Town, multiply-patch'd to indicate Behavior she might, upon Acquaintance, prove to be a Good Sport about.
"Ah, ha. Amazing! Why, here again's The Moon. Care to pop in?" Inside, a chorus of pleasant-looking young Women begin to sing,—
Well Sailor ahoy,
Put down that Harpoon,
You're a fortunate Boy,
For ye've beach'd on The Moon,
And we Moon Maidens hope,
We shall know ye quite soon,
'Tis the end of our Rope,—
We need Men, in The Moon.
[refrain]
Ah, Men in The Moon,
A miraculous Boon,
Midnight and Noon, we need
Men in The Moon!
What but Maskelyne's local? "Usual Sir Cloudsley, Gov? and the Madeira for your friend? Mr. Mas-son,, excellent. Mr. Dixon successfully embark'd, I trust?"
"Once again, a Pleasure," Mason squints.
The landlord, Mr. Blackner, is that extremity of Quidnunc which, given enough time, necessarily emerges upon a small Island surrounded by Ocean for thousands of Soul-less leagues in ev'ry direction, where the village-siz'd population have only one another to talk about, and anyone newly arriv'd is feasted upon with an eagerness match'd only in certain rivers of South America. Everyone comes to know what everyone else knows,— and the strange mind-to-mind Throb may be felt distinctly, not to mention apprehensively, by the New-comer.
As soon as Mr. Blackner, by way of this remarkable intelligence-gathering Mirror, discover'd Maskelyne's connections to Clive and the East India Company, he began announcing the news to Visitors, some of them no more than common Seamen, with a jerk of the Thumb in Maskelyne's direction,— "That's Clive of India's brother-in-law, over there. Right by the Crock of Gin?"
"Out in the Wind a bit too long again, Mr. B.”
"My Oath,— the Celebrated Super-Nabob his brother-in-law, right before your eyes,— and he has two Brothers, and Clive of India's their brother-in-law, too." Sometimes actually bringing over to Maskelyne the wary pint-clutching Visitor, "Here, Nevil my Lad,— who's your brother-in-law? Go ahead, tell him."
Annoying himself each time, Maskelyne, reluctant to fuss, wishing only to have it over with, replies, "Aye, 'tis Lord Clive."
"But,— Clive of India?" the shrewd Visitor will wish to make sure.
"That very Hero, sir, has the great good fortune to be married to my sister."
"Ah yes, yes," their Host far too avid, "that of course'd be Miss Peggy."
For this sort of thing he has receiv'd nearly audible glares,— 'tis a finely pois'd arrangement here at The Moon. In return for suffering the familiarities of a celebrity-mad Knit-wit, Maskelyne is allow'd to run up a Tab, already legendary even in a hard-drinking port like this, that might finance a small War,— chargeable to the Royal Society of course, and beyond them, should they demur above a sum Mr. Blackner is not certain of (which will disagreeably prove to be but five shillings per Day), to the wealthy-without-limit Clive of India. Maskelyne may also feel the weight of Family Tradition, his brother Edmund, known as Mun, ten years before, on his way out to the Carnatic as a young Company Writer, having also visited The Moon, and not cared for it much,— suggesting it might, however, be just young Nevil's sort of place. Maskelyne is still trying to work out what that might be.
Later, up at the Upper Observatory upon Alarum Ridge, Mason tries to have a look at the Plumb-line Suspension without appearing too blatant about it, Maskelyne having grown ever more fretful,— not to mention resentful. On the Day of the Transit, Mason and Dixon had obtain'd Times for all four contacts internal and external of Venus and the Sun, whilst here at St. Helena, just at the crucial moment of first contact, a Cloud had appear'd, and made directly for the Sun. How Maskelyne's heart must have sunk. He'd been warn'd not to place his observatory too low, had known of Dr. Halley's difficulties with the early Fog that often fill'd the great Ravine. Upon hearing of Maskelyne's ill-fortune, Mason understands that his Task will be never to appear pleas'd in front of him,— nor for that matter to respond to any of his Stiletto-Flourishes, which will prove to be frequent.