Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Just what I keep listening for, Thelmer," Euphrenia nods, "in the songs and hymns of your own American day, yet do I seek in vain after madness, and Rapture,— hearing but a careful attending to the same Forms, the same Interests, as of old,— and have you noticed the way ev'rything, suddenly, has begun to gravitate toward B-flat major? That's a sign of trouble ahead. Marches and Anthems, for Triumphs that have not yet been made real. Already 'tis possible to walk the streets of New-York, passing among Buskers and Mongers, from one street-air to the next, and whistle along, and never have to change Key from B flat major."
"Ah. And yet.. .If I may?" The young man seats himself at the Clavier, and arpeggiates a few major chords. "In C, if ye like,— here is something the fellows sing at University, when we are off being merry,— 'To Anacreon in Heaven' 's its Name,— I'll spare ye the words, lest the Innocence of any Ear in the Room, be assaulted." Tenebrae has invented and refin'd a way of rolling her eyes, undetectable to any save her Target, upon whom the effect is said to be devastating. Ethelmer's reaction is not easy to detect, save that he is blinking rapidly, and forgets, for a moment, where Middle C is.
The Air he plays to them would be martial but for its Tempo, being more that of a Minuet,— thirty-two Measures in all,— which by its end has feet tapping and necks a-sway. "Here, I say, is the New Form in its Essence,— Four Stanzas,— sentimentally speaking, a 'Sandwich,' with the third eight 'Bars' as the Filling,— that Phrase," playing it, "ascending like a Sky-Rocket, its appeal to the Emotions primitive as any experienced in the Act of—
"Cousin?— "
- of, of Eating, that's all I was going to say...," hands spread in gawky appeal.
She shakes her Finger at him, tho' as the Revd can easily see, in nought but Play.
"And this is the sort of thing you lads are up to," he avuncularly rumbles, "out there over Delaware? Anatomizing your own drinking songs!— is nothing sacred, and is there not but a small skipping Dance-step, till ye be questioning earthly, nay, Heavenly, Powers?"
"Something's a-stir in Musick, anyway," quickly inserts Aunt Euphy, - most of the new pieces us'd to be one Dance-Tune after another, or, for the Morning Next, a similar Enchainment of Hymns,— no connection, Gigue, Sarabande, Bourree, la la la well a-trip thro' the Zinnias of Life, and how merry, of course,— but 'my' stuff, Thelmer,"— waving a Sheaf of Musick-Sheets,— "all is become Departure, and sentimental Crisis,— the Sandwich-Filling it seems,— and at last, Return to the Tonick, safe at Home, no need even to play loud at the end.—
Mason and Dixon's West Line," Aunt Euphrenia setting her Oboe carefully upon the arm of her Chair, "in fact, shares this modern Quality of Departure and Return, wherein, year upon Year, the Ritornelli are not merely the same notes again and again, but variant each time, as Clocks have tick'd onward, Chance has dealt fair and foul, Life, willy-nilly, has been liv'd through—"
"As to journey west," adds the Revd helpfully, "in the same sense as the Sun, is to live, raise Children, grow older, and die, carried along by the Stream of the Day,— whilst to turn Eastward, is somehow to resist time and age, to work against the Wind, seek ever the dawn, even, as who can say, defy Death."
"A drama guaranteed ev'ry time a Reedwoman picks up her Instrument, Wick-Wax,— a Novel in Musick, whose Hero instead of proceeding down the road having one adventure after another, with no end in view, comes rather through some Catastrophe and back to where she set out from."
"No place like home, eh?" guffaws Lomax LeSpark.
"Doesn't sound too revolutionary to me," declares Uncle Ives. "Sounds like a good sermon aim'd at keeping the Country-People in their place."
"That's because you ain't hearing it aright, Nunk. 'Tis the Elder World, Turn'd Upside Down," Ethelmer banging out a fragment of the
tune of that Title, play'd at the surrender of Cornwallis, " Tis a lengthy step in human wisdom, Sir."
"Oh dear oh dear, beware then," the Revd groans in a manner he has learn'd, if challenged, to pass off as Stomach distress. Ethelmer seems dangerous to him somehow, and not only because of Tenebrse,— toward whom these days he is undergoing Deep Avuncularity, with its own Jangle of Sentiments pure and impure. Yet, leaving all that out, there remains to the Boy a residue of Worldliness notable even in this Babylon of post-war Philadelphia,— a step past Deism, a purpos'd Disconnection from Christ—
"...South Philadelphia Ballad-singers," Ethelmer has meanwhile been instructing the Room, "generally Tenors, who are said, in their Succession, to constitute a Chapter in the secret History of a Musick yet to be, if not the Modal change Plato fear'd, then one he did not foresee."
"Not even he." His mathematickal cousin DePugh is disquieted.
"My point exactly!" cries Ethelmer, who has been edging toward the Spirits, mindful that at some point he shall have to edge past his Cousin Tenebrae. " 'Tis ever the sign of Revolutionary times, that Street-Airs become Hymns, and Roist'ring-Songs Anthems,— just as Plato fear'd,— hast heard the Negroe Musick, the flatted Fifths, the vocal portamenti,— 'tis there sings your Revolution. These late ten American Years were but Slaughter of this sort and that. Now begins the true Inversion of the World."
"Don't know, Coz. Much of your Faith seems invested in this novel Musick,—
"Where better?" asks young Ethelmer confidently. "Is it not the very Rhythm of the Engines, the Clamor of the Mills, the Rock of the Oceans, the Roll of the Drums in the Night, why if one wish'd to give it a Name,—
"Surf Music!" DePugh cries.
"Percussion," Brae, sweet as a Pie.
"Very well to both of ye,— nonetheless,— as you, DePugh, shall, one full Moon not too distant, be found haggling in the Alleys with Caribbean Negroes, over the price of some modest Guitar upon which to strum this very Musick, so shall you, Miss, be dancing to it, at your Wedding.”
"Then you should be wearing this 'round your Head," suggests Brae quite upon her "Beat," "if you wish to work as a Gypsy." Handing him from her Sewing-Basket a length of scarlet Muslin, which the game Ethelmer has 'round his head in a Trice.
"More a Pirate than a Gypsy," Brae opines.
"Yet, just as Romantick, in its way...?”
" 'Demagogue'!" mutters Dr. Franklin. "Our excellent Sprout Penn, the latest of his crypto-Jesuit ruling family, and his Satanick arrangement with Mr. Allen, his shameless Attentions to the Presbyterian Mobility,— has the effrontery to speak of 'crushing this Demagogue'— well, well, aye, Demagogue...Milton thought it a 'Goblin word,' that might yet describe good Patriots,— '
"Good Patriots all!" cries the impulsive Mr. Dixon, raising his Cup.
Dr. Franklin observes them, one at a time, through the tinted lenses of Spectacles of his own Invention, for moderating the Glare of the Sun, whose Elevation upon his Nose varies, according to the message it happens to be inflecting, giving over all the impression of a Visitor from very far away indeed. The Geometers have encounter'd the eminent Philadel-phian quite by chance, in the pungent and dim back reaches of an Apothecary in Locust-Street, each Gentleman upon a distinct mission of chemical Necessity, as among these shelves and bins, the Godfrey's Cordial and Bateman's Drops, Hooper's Female Pills and Smith's Medicinal Snuff, hasty bargains are struck, Strings of numbers and letters and alchemists' Signs whisper'd (and some never written down), whilst a quiet warm'd Narcosis, as of a drawing to evening far out in a Country of fields where drying herbal crops lie, just perceptibly breathing, possesses the Shop Interior, rendering it indistinct as to size, legality, or destiny.
Dixon is accosting at length a clerk who has taken him for one more English tourist hectically out in search of Chinamen's Drugs,— "Any- thing, ideally, with Ooahpium in it will do...? Al-cohol to keep it in solution of course...perhaps some For-mulation that would go well with the Daffy's Elixir of which we plan to purchase,— eeh, how many Cases was that again, Mr. Mason...?"
Mason glares back, too keenly aware of the celebrated American Philosopher's Eye upon them,— having hoped to project before it, somehow, at least the forms of Precedence,— but of course Dixon's rustic Familiarities have abolish'd, yet again, any such hope,— one more Station of the Cross to be put up with. "Any matter of Supply falls into your area, Dixon. Have a word with Mr. McClean if you're not sure," hearing how it sounds, even as he goes on with it.
Dixon remains cheery. "In thah' welcome Event," making a carefree motion in the Air with his Handkerchief, "an hundred Cases should do the trick, for this time out, anyway,— Now as to that Oahpiated article we were discussing,—
"Aye, we call it a Laudanum, Sir,— compounded according to the original Formulae of the noted Dr. Paracelsus, of Germany."
"An hundred Cases?" screams Mason, "have you gone insane? This is a Church-going Province,— 'twill never be authoriz'd."
"Preventive against a variety of Ailments, Sir...?— excellent anti-costive properties,— given the Uncertainty of Diet,—
"The Commissioners know all too well about Daffy's Elixir, and the uses 'tis put to," Mr. Franklin, who has been attending the exchange, here feels he must point out. "And being imported, 'tis only to be had, at prices charg'd in the English-shops. Now, for a tenth of that outrageous sum, our good Apothecary Mr. Mispick will compound you a 'Salutis' impossible to distinguish from the original. Or you may design your own, consulting with him as to your preferr'd Ratio of Jalap to Senna, which variety of Treacle pleases you,— all the fine points of Daffyolatry are known to him, he has seen it all, and nothing will shock or offend him." He raises a Finger. " 'Strangers, heed my wise advice,— Never pay the Retail Price.' "
"This is kind of you Sir, for fair...? Mr. Mason's choices, illustrative of a more Bacchic Leaning, enjoying Priority of mine, so must I rest content with more modest outlays, from my own meager Purse, alas, for any Philtres peculiarly useful to m'self... ?”
Dr. Franklin shifts his Lenses as if for a clearer look at Dixon. A Smile struggles to find its way through lips purs'd in Speculation,— but before it quite may, being the sort of man who, tho' never seen to consult a Time-piece, always knows the exact Time, "Come," he bids the Astronomers abruptly, "— you've not yet been to a Philadelphia Coffeehouse? Poh,— we must amend that,— something no Visitor should miss,— I must transact an Item or two of Business,— would you honor me by having a brief Sip at my Local, The Blue Jamaica?"
"London," Mr. Mason is soon reporting, "is quite thoroughly charm'd by your Glass Armonica, thanks to the Artistry of the excellent Miss Davies."
"I have done my utmost to convince Miss Davies that, given the general Frangibility, use of any strong Vibrato could prove,— putting it as gallantly as possible,— unwise. Yet she plays so beautifully. My idle Toy has found itself fortunately arriv'd, among a small Host of Virtuosi. Heavens. The Mozart child,— and these Tales I keep hearing, of the young Parisian Doctor, Mesmer, who plays it, 'tis said, unusually well."
"Not the Magnetickal Gent?" says Mason.
"The very same. Known to the R.S. for some time, I collect."
"At The Mitre, he is ever reliable as a topick of lively Discourse."
"Where Franklin is a Member, and tha've scarcely been a Guest," Dixon may be muttering to himself. Aloud,— " 'Scuse me, Friend," briskly upon his feet, "where does one go over the Heap around here?"
Mr. Franklin points out to him a Door to the Yard, and when he is out of earshot, begins, it seems abruptly, to inquire about the Surveyor's "Calvert connections."
Mason is perplex'd. "I didn't know there were any. I imagin'd, that being of a Quaker family, he was deem'd acceptable to the Pennsylvani-ans, but have ever been at a loss to explain his appeal, if any, to the Marylanders."
"The Calverts are content to live in England,— as they are Catholics, their children are educated across the Channel, in St. Omer. One of the Jesuits teaching there is a certain Le Maire, who is native to Durham and a particular friend of Dixon's teacher, William Emerson,— “
"Yes. But you'd have to ask Dixon about the Jesuit. I know of him only as the partner of Roger Boscovich,— the two degrees of Latitude in Italy,—"
-
from Rome to Rimini, aye." Franklin, behind his Orchid-hued
Lenses, waits for Mason to work out the Comparisons.
"What's going on, then?" Mason trying to peer, he hopes not as truculently as he feels, into the shadowy Lunettes.
"You might sometime find yourself discussing these matters with your Second,—
"After which," Mason replies, as Franklin suddenly, with naked nar-row'd eyes, looks over the tops of his Spectacles and nods encouragingly, - I am to relate the Minutes of it all to you?"
Mr. Franklin replacing his "Glasses," "Not if it causes you Discomfort, Sir. Although some Discomforts may ever be eas'd by timely application of Ben's Universal Balm,—
-
yet do others continue intractable. Why, Dr. Franklin, are you
urging me to this, may I say, dismal choice?"
"Oh,— wagering against your loyalty," Franklin shrugs. "An elementary exercise,— and pray, do not feel you have in any way offended me,— as an adult, I am no stranger to Rejection, I have long learn'd to deal with it in Dignity, as a sane man would,— and without Resentment, motive for it though I may enjoy in Abundance."
"Sir, I cannot spy upon him for you. I am sorry the Politics here have become so, as one would say, Italian, in their intricacies. But my contractual Tasks alone will be difficult enough without— ah and here is Mr. Dixon."
"D'you know a lad nam'd Lewis? Said he knew you, Dr. Franklin."
"Where was this?" Franklin has begun twirling the hair upon either side of his Head, into long Curls.
"Just out in the Alley. He tried to sell me a Watch...? said it was a Masonick Astrologer's Model...? Signs of the Zoahdiahck...? Pheases of the Moon,—
"You didn't— "
"Couldn't. Not unless one of you wants to lend me—