Authors: Thomas Pynchon
In trips this shaven, somewhat narrow Youth, a Durham Dandy in Silver Brocade, Chinese Fastenings ev'rywhere in bright Gold, for Contrast,— and as a Finial, a curiously cock'd Hat with a long green Parrot Plume extending from it further than anyone present has even known a Feather to go. "Mother!" pipes the 'morphos'd Lud. "When will you do something about your Hair? Whike, stop touching me. Mr. Emerson, well met, turn about, so we may admire thy Buttons,— who's that, Jere Dixon? going over to America! knew they'd pop you one day, what was it, another Raid upon another Larder, I expect,— yet better than being hang'd, what-what, old Turnip?"
"Two, call it three nights," groans Ma Oafery, "ev'ry Month, no worse than the Flux, really,— he has memoriz'd several current Theatrickal Music-Pieces, and sings them to me thro' the Day. He tells Joaks I do not understand. He quizzes with me in Foreign Tongues. Yet am I a Mum,— I can tolerate it.”
The most metaphysickal thing Mason will ever remember Dixon saying is, "I owe my Existence to a pair of Shoes." His Father, George Dixon, Sr., having ridden in late to Quarterly Meeting,— a wet night, ev'ryone gone to bed, a pile of Shoes left out to be clean'd,— in all the great quaquaversal Array, he sees only the pair belonging to Mary Hunter. Without planning it he has stoop'd, pick'd them up, pretending to move them back from the Fire lest they dry and crack. Who would own a pair of shoes like that, who'd have decided to wear them here to Meeting? Fancies herself a bit? A bit too much? He'll have to find out, won't he...?
George can tell a good deal by a pair of Shoes. As 'twas ever the custom Easter Mondays in County Durham, he'd run about Staindrop with other boys of the Fell to pull off the shoes of any Girls they met, and keep them till redeem'd with a gift. Older boys ask'd for a Kiss, younger boys were content with a Sweet, which Girls learn'd to carry a Bag of with them, upon that Day.
The minute he steps into Breakfast next morning,— so, one day, their daughter Elizabeth will come to believe,— they 'spy each other. More likely he's been up before the first bird, to ask the fellow cleaning all the Shoes,— finding out that she's Mary Hunter, from Newcastle. 'Tis a relative who introduces them at last. "Something about thy Shoes, Mary...?"
"My Shoes...?" A direct gaze.
George Dixon, out upon the Road so much that he has left back at the Stables any need in his Conversation to dismount, canters ahead. "Last night I took the Liberty of moving them back from the fire. I trust they're no worse for it."
"Thou must ask them." He is on one knee in a flash, a hand in each Shoe pois'd either side of his Face. Glancing up at her, "Well. How are thee," he addresses one Shoe, "not too wet, not too dry?" Causing it to reply, "Quite well, thanks," in a high-pitch'd voice that draws the attention of a number of small children nearby, "unless I am to be wet with tears of boredom, or dry from too little time walking out.—
Why aye," in his ev'ry-day Voice, "and how's thy Sister?" "Eeh!" screeching back at himself in an ill-humor'd Ogress voice, "and have I started talking to gowks, then?" Shaking his own head, "I can't believe you're sisters, the one so sweet, the other— "Watch yourself, Geordie," warns the screechy one.
Some Children have come tottering over to look at the source of these Voices. George Dixon, maybe too young to know trouble when he sees it, can't stop talking to himself. Some crazy Enterprizer, helpful Relations murmur, with a wild-cat coal operation out upon the Fell, whilst others wag their heads in dazed tho' not altogether comfortless unison,— and before any of them know it, the couple are, as they say around Staindrop, "gannin straights."
They are already connected in the Durham Quaker Web,— Mary's mother having died, her father, Thomas Hunter, took a second wife, who also died, and then a third. Eight years after his own death (Mary passing under the protection of her Uncle Jeremiah), the third wife and now widow, Elizabeth, got married again,— this time to Ralph Dixon, George's father.
"So...," taking off his hat and shaking out his hair, "we've each had her for a step-mother. What's that make us, then,— step-brother and step-sister-in-law... ?"
"Yet that is not the Tale the Neighbors have preferr'd to tell. They have it, that Mamma, no sooner than my Father died, married his Father- "
"So...she married thy grandfather...making thy mother also thy grandmother."
"Not too much of that over in Weardale, I imagine. Step-Grandmother, in fact...?”
"What would they do without Hunter women?"
He is tying his Hair back again with a brown grosgrain Ribbon,— she surprizes herself by staring at his hands and their patient way with what has prov'd to be a notable cascade of Hair,— as it comes less and less to frame his face, she understands that he's doing this on purpose, for her, offering, risking, his unprotected Face.
Mary Hunter was nearly eighteen when her father died and she became the ward of her Uncle, Jeremiah Hunter. He was fifty-four at the time. "Think of it as a Picturesque Affliction, my Dear." "Oh, Uncle..." Did she remain his Ward until she married George, twelve years later? It must have been with Uncle Jeremiah in mind that she nam'd her second son. George Sr., not altogether happy with the name,— too Scriptural,— would clutch his head whenever the baby let out a Peep, however good-naturedly, and exclaim, "Alas! The Lamentations of Jeremiah!" Whenever he heard these words, the baby would begin to give Beef in earnest, and his mother grimly to smile. As George Jr. learn'd to talk, he added the phrase to a Repertoire of Teasing Arts he was happy to share with his sisters. The difficulty was that little Jeremiah assum'd nearly all of this was being done to amuse him,— for he lov'd the older children with an unqualified and undaunted certainty, despite the energy bordering upon vehemence with which they lifted, swung, or pass'd him whilst inverted one to the other, and their tales of ghosts and creatures of the Fell, and the nick-naming, exclusions, and words kept secret from him,— 'twas all, to the unreflective Jelly-Belly, as he was known, huge Fun.
Neighbors came to think of his Mother as the cleverest woman ever to marry a Dixon. She pretended, however, that George was the clever one. "He usually reads my Mind," she told Elizabeth, "and if tha find an Husband who's fool'd as seldom, the happier thou'll be...? It saves thee all the day-in-and-day-out effort of trying to fool him,— fetch me that would you, beloved,— and upon the few occasions when thou may fool him,— why, it does wonders for thy Confidence."
"Tha've fooled him? Really, Mamma?"
"Once or twice. Beware a man who admires thy shoes. Thou may love him to distraction, but at the same time thou'll wish strongly to play tricks upon him, which though of an innocent nature, carry with them
chances for misunderstanding. Tis not a pastime for the young,— I would urge thee for example to ease off upon the Raylton lad for the time being, and to concentrate upon thy Sums. Remember, she who keepeth the Books runneth the Business."
"He's so— "
"Yes."
"Oh, tha don't know."
"I know thee." A quick sweep of her palm down the Girl's Hair. "I see that gaupy Look."
His father died when Jeremiah was twenty-two, a fairly miserable stretch beginning for him then, tho' he never drank enough to interfere with field-work,— something he needed as much as ready access to Ale,— still young enough to arise little inconvenienced after a night's strenuous drinking, having led till now the merry Life of a Journeyman Surveyor, errant all through the North country, one Great Land-Holding to another, three-legged Staff cock'd over his shoulder, Circumferentor slung in a Pitman's bag along with dry Stockings and a small wheaten Loaf, spare Needles and Pins, Plummets, Pencils, scrap-paper, and jeweler's Putty for the Compass,— tho' Spaces not yet enclos'd would ever make him uneasy, not a promising mental condition for an outdoor job,— oblig'd to cross the Fell now and again, a dangerous and frightening place,— not only murderers abroad, but Spirits as well,— and Spirits not necessarily in human form, no,— the worst being, almost in human form, but not quite.. .now he long'd only, late at night, whispering to the familiar Floorboards, either to be kill'd and devour'd out there, or to become one of them, predatory and forever unshelter'd,— either way, transform'd.
He broke faith with ev'ry one he knew,— loans unhonor'd, errands unrun, silences unkept. His older sister Hannah married a Yorkshireman but three months after their Father's passing, and Jere show'd up at the Wedding and made a Spectacle of himself. "I'm best getting on with it, Jeremiah,— and so ought thee, and who are thee, to call me such things?" He was turning into a Country Lout, soon to be beyond reclamation.
Elizabeth, tearful and broken, had headed directly for the comfort of her Mother, both assum'd into a silent unapproachable cloud of mourn-
ing,— the boys being left each to his own way of soldiering on, the
Enemy who'd so unanswerably insulted them at their Backs now some
where, and in and out of their sleep
George got busier than he had to
be with one Scheme and another,— pulling Greenstone out of the Dyke under Cockfield Fell, carving and fitting together stalks of Humlock for another of his Gas-pipe Schemes, re-designing the Spur-gearing or the Pump-seals out at the Workings. Jeremiah found himself indoors, perfecting his Draftsmanship, bending all day over the work-table, grinding and mixing his own Inks,— sittings and splashes ev'rywhere of King's Yellow, Azure, red Orpiment, Indian lake, Verdigris, Indigo, and Umber. Levigating, elutriating, mixing the gum-water, pouncing and rosining the Paper to prevent soak-through,— preparation he would once rashly have hurried 'round or in great part omitted, was now necessary, absolutely necessary, to do right. He must, if one day call'd upon, produce an overhead view of a World that never was, in truth-like detail, one he'd begun in silence to contrive,— a Map entirely within his mind, of a World he could escape to, if he had to. If he had to, he would enter it entirely but never get lost, for he would have this Map, and in it, spread below, would lie ev'rything,— Mountain of Glass, Sea of Sand, miraculous Springs, Volcanoes, Sacred Cities, mile-deep Chasm, Serpent's Cave, endless Prairie....another Chapbook-Fancy with each Deviation and Dip of the Needle,
When night fell he would put his drafting things away, back into their Velvet Nests in Pear-Wood cases, and go out to The Tiger or The Grey Hound, seeking men who'd been friends of his father's, seeking somehow to nod and smile them into remembering. Much of the Ale-borne Mati-ness others were to see in him was learn'd during this time, at great effort, a word, a Gesture at a Time.
They told him often of things he didn't know, or thought he didn't, of the Coal Business. Iliads of never-quite-straightforward dealings among Owners, Staithemen, Collier-Masters, and Fitters,— who might have own'd a particular Keel and who hadn't but said he did...'twas ever something, for whilst business Tyneside might be done by one-year Contracts and fix'd Fees, here upon the Wear, all was negotiable.
Just before leaving for America, he spends as much Time as he may at The Jolly Pitman, tho' now he is more likely to be the Story-teller.
Some are gone, yet are there some who say, "George would be proud of thee now."
"Will ye come with wee Dodd and me on my Keel, as ye did last time, Jere?"
"Why aye, Mr. Snow, and I thank thee...?"
So it is he now approaches the Harbor, down the River widening out of darkness, into a dawn singing of Staithemen and Keel-Bullies— "How theer!" "Eeh, watcheer!"— the Fleets of Keels carried down and sailing up-stream, the Beam-Work of the first Staithes, penn'd upon the sunrise, both sides of the river a-rumble with, the coal in the shoots and the coal-filled waggons upon the wood rails, the Dyer's Bath of Morning, no redder than Twopenny Beer, spilling 'cross the World east of Chester-le-Street, punctuated by the Geometry of Tunnels, Bridges and earthwork Embankments sizable as Pyramids, the great inclin'd Waggon-Ways, whose Tracks run from the Mine-Heads inland for miles down to the Spouts upon Wear—
America, waiting, someplace. Going out to the collier Mary and Meg, bound again for London River, riding atop the Huddock, Dixon sees Fog, pale and shifting, approach like a great predatory Worm. He has snick-er'd at Gin-shop tales of Keelmen lost in the fog, never expecting any such mishap in his own life, having ever plann'd to spend as much of it as he may upon dry land. But here it comes, the flanks of the aqueous Creature seething ever closer, as young Dodd the Peedee gives a shout of alarm, and Mr. Snow, in his Post of Keel-Bully, begins to swear vigorously. Already half the Shoreline is obscur'd. Far away upon the Shields a bell-buoy rings in the dank morning, and somewhere closer, upon now-invisible Rounds, yet goes the Bell of the Tagareen Man, ship to ship, Iron seeking Iron,— and then, like that, wrapped in the sulfurous Signatures of fresh Coal, have a Score of Savages appear'd out of the Sea-Fret, paddling Pirogues, shouting strange jibber-jabber, the words incomprehensible, yet the vowels unmistakably North British. How to explain this?
"That wild Indian sounds a bit like poor old Cookie, don't it?"
"They've painted themselves—
"Aye, black as Coal-dust."
"How-ye,- " calls Mr. Snow, "What place is this?”
"Why, ye've floated to America, ye buggers!"
"Heer, we'll foy yese in...?"
"America... Eehh...?"
"Eeeh, y' Gowks!" A grappling hook, blackened and lethal, comes flying out of the Fret, just missing young Dodd and catching the Hud-dock. "They're attacking!" screams the Peedee, scrabbling in the coal. And just then, out there, like Hounds let loose, the church bells of America all begin to toll, peculiarly lucid in the fog, a dense Carillon, tun'd so exotically, they might be playing anything,— Methodist hymns, Opera-hall Airs, jigs and gigues, work songs of sailors, Italian serenades, British Ballads, American Marches.
"Now listen heer ye's," the Keel-Bully to Forces invisible, "there's nought to fear from huz, being but poor peaceable Folk lost in this uncommon Fret, who'll be only too pleased to gan wi' ye's, wheerever ye say." In a lower voice, to his own, "They want the Coal. Let them find us." Carefully, sensing the Tides thro' his Soles, he steers them further into the Obscurity. The others, keeping silent, may be anywhere. Snow reacts to ev'ry Splash, ev'ry shift of whatever is flowing past. Soon the Fog begins to clear.