Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"I'll go have a look," Mason rising. "Come along Dixon, and point him out?”
"Eeh, Ah think he's gone...?" Dixon now preoccupied with pouring the contents of a small Vial into his Coffee.
Mason, unable to insist without appearing to wish to consult out of Franklin's hearing, and needing to piss anyhow, shrugs and withdraws. The moment he vanishes, Franklin begins to press Dixon upon the Top-ick of Mason's "East India Company Connections."
"Is thah' the Dutch or the English one?" Dixon's Phiz altogether innocent. "Ah'm ever confounding 'em...?"
Franklin at last allowing himself to chuckle. "Friend Dixon,— Loyalty is a Gem, of Worth innate, Whose price is never notic'd,— till too late."
"We've had an Adventure or two, you see."
"Ah, me. Don't suppose the name Sam Peach of Chalford would ring a Bell...?"
With quizzical sincerity, "One of thoase lads in The Beggar's Opera...?— "
"Well, well, Mr. Dixon, be easy, I release you,— and look ye, here again is your Companion."
"The man's an entire Instrument-shop," says Mason, "• - droll sort of friend for you to have, Dr. Franklin,— interesting Wig.... Told me a Riddle, in fact,— Why is the King like a near-sighted Gunner?— 'Well d——'d if I know,' I said back, 'but Dr. Franklin is sure to.''
"Mr. Mason! Dear, dear. How would I know any such Joak? Or person?"
"Why, to help you find out how much,—
- and how foolishly,— - we have to spend, perhaps!" sing Mason and Dixon.
"Phlogiston and Electric Fir-r-re,— " cries the eminent Philadelphian, "if I'm not the Biter bi-i-t. As you'd say, trans-parent, was I?... Awkward... should've just ask'd them at the Royal Society, being a member
after all....Indeed, I was among 'em at the time you fought the French
Vessel,— in London, when you wrote to them...quite a Hub-Bub, Gentlemen! Tho' absent from the meeting which approv'd their reply to you,— innocent, you understand,— I did attend the next, a classick Display of those people at their worst. Taken one at a time,— dear Tom Birch, august Hadley the Quadrant's Eponym, Mr. Short, Dr. Morton,— excellent minds, invigorating Company,— but when they got all in a Herd,— bless us, the Stubbornness! They knew the French had Ben-
eoolen and would be as content to sink the Seahorse there, as off Brest. They all knew. But they could never allow upstarts to advise them in matters of Global strategy. Alas, the British,— bloody-minded to the end, so long as it be somebody else's Blood. Thus the Board of Trade, thus the House of Commons.... Up there, day after day, instructing them, gently,— a Schoolmaster for Idiots.—
Sooner or later, no offense, Gentlemen, Americans must fight them—
"Hurrah, howbeit?— for I am res-cued." He refers in his courtly way, to the arrival of a pair of young Women, both quite pleasant-looking, tho' deck'd out with what, even to the unschool'd Eye, seems willful Eccentricity, and who may or may not have been among those in the Carriage which had been earlier at the Landing.
"There he is!"
"Oh, Doctor!" more than vigorously nudging one another, and laughing at differing rates of Speed.
"These are Molly and Dolly," Franklin introduces them, "Students of the Electrickal Arts, whom I am pleas'd from time to time to examine, in the Sub-ject, ye-e-s.... If you've the Inclination tonight, Gentlemen, I am giving a recital, upon the Glass Instrument, at the sign of The Fair Anchor, upon Carpenters Wharf, just down from The London Coffee House. 'Tis a sort of,— what is the Word I grope for,—
"Gin-shop," sings Molly.
"Opium den," cries Dolly.
"Ladies, Ladies—"
"Doctor, Doctor!" As the Philosopher, attempting to maintain his Hair in some order, is slowly absorb'd into a mirthful Cloud of tartan-edg'd Emerald Green and luminous Coral taffeta, Prints with a Lap-Dog Motif, ribbons with "Sailor Beware," "No free Kisses," "Be Quick about it," and other humorous slogans woven into them, Flounces and loose Hats and wand'ring Tresses, the Astronomers reckon it as good a moment as any to be off. Passing into the Street, they can hear Molly piping, "And she swore to me, she saw it glowing in the Dark...?"
Outside they stand, blinking. "I don't knaahw...?.. .Hadn't thoo imag-in'd him as somehow more..."
"Organized. Aye. By Reputation, he is a man entirely at ease with the inner structures of Time itself. Yet, here he seems strangely...”
"Unfoahcused, as we Lensmen say...?"
Mason rolling his eyes, "Perhaps we should pop into that Fair Anchor this Evening, what think you?"
"Aye, happen those two canny Electricians'll be there...? Rather fancied old Dolly myself. Woman knows how to turn herself out, 'd tha noatice?"
Hearing what he imagines to be an Emphasis upon "two," Mason directs at Dixon an effortful smile, meaning, "Go ahead, but don't expect me to ascend wearily out of my Melancholia just so ev'rybody else can have their own idea of a good time,"— which happens to be the most Dixon would ever think of asking of him, anyhow. And withal, when they show up at The Fair Anchor that Night, it turns out to be Mason's sort of place nicely,— basic and bleak, discouraging ev'ry attempt, even grunting, that might suggest Conviviality, the wood Furniture carv'd upon, splinter'd and scarr'd, the Stale-Ale as under-hopp'd, as 'tis over-water'd. They secure a place along the Bar, and presently Mr. Franklin appears, having exchang'd his Orchid Spectacles for Half-Lenses of Nocturnal Blue. The occupants of the Room, hitherto strewn without more purpose than the human Jetsam of any large Seaport, all sit up at once, draw together, and with the precision of a long-rehears'd Claque, begin to chatter of Miss Davies, and Gluck, and ineluctably, Mesmer.
The Instrument awaits him, its nested Crystal Hemispheres, each tun'd to a Note of the Scale, carefully brought hither through reef'd-Topsail seas and likewise whelming Anxieties back at Lloyd's regarding the inherent Vice of Glass added to the yet imperfectly known contingencies of voyage by Ship,— brought to shine in this commodious Corner, beneath a portrait of some Swedish Statesman too darken'd with Room-smoke for anyone to be sure who it is any more,— Oxenstjerna, Gyllenstjerna, Gyllenborg, who knows?— discussions often becoming quite spirited, though, of course, conducted in Swedish. It has hung there, growing into its Anonymity, since the early times of the Swedish settlers,— gazing into the room, at the nightly dramas of lost consciousness and squander'd Coin, at gaming and roaring and varieties inexhaustible of Argument. Behind it rises a Flight of stairs, up and down which creeps a ceaseless Traffick. Many pause to stare over the false Mahogany Railing at Dr. Franklin seated at his Glass Armonica, or down upon the Figures and into the Decolletages of Molly and Dolly, who not only have show'd up, but have brought along two more young women with similar ideas about Fashion. "These Doxies," Mason mutters, "look ye,— they're staring at me. I can feel myself becoming Unreasonably Suspicious."
"Rest easy,— 'tis me they want," Dixon waving.
"Jerry! Charlie! Over here!" The Ladies seem delighted. Dr. Franklin waits for the parties to rearrange their seating, then strikes a C major chord. The room quiets instantly. He begins to play, rotating, by way of a Treadle Arrangement, the horizontal Stack of Glasses thro' a Trough of Water, to keep the Rims ever wet, and then simply touching each wet rim moving by, as he would have touch'd the Key of an Organ, to produce a queerly hoarse, ringing Tone. If Chimes could whisper, if Melodies could pass away, and their Souls wander the Earth.. .if Ghosts danced at Ghost Ridottoes, 'twould require such Musick, Sentiment ever held back, ever at the Edge of breaking forth, in Fragments, as Glass breaks.
Upon one of his intermissions, the Doctor, having secur'd a Pot of Ale, approaches the Geometers. "Come and meet Mr. Tallihoe, of Virginia," who proves to be anxious that they visit with Col° Washington, of that Province.
"You'll want to have a chat,— he's been out there, knows the country, the Inhabitants,— Surveyor, like yourselves."
Dixon here must suppress a Chuckle, knowing how it annoys Mason to be styl'd so. "Bad enough at the Cape, calling us both Astronomers,— Mason has complained, and more than once. "I'm being insulted coming and going, it's not fair."
"He's said to be of a Wear Valley Family... ? They told me to look him up...?"
At Dawn they are led to a remote cross-roads north of the City. Out of the cold Humidity rolls smoothly a Coach of peculiar Design. "But step aboard, Gents, and this Machine'11 have yese in Mount Vernon ere Phoebus lift 'is Nob again."
"Is it safe?" inquires Mason.
"Perfectly,— 'tis the Road that's perilous!" Mr. Tallihoe shaking both their hands in fare-well.
"You're not coming along...?" Dixon collects.
"Not I. He'll not wish to see me. Lord's Mercy, no."
They ride all night, and neither sleeps. The Coach stops for nothing. Meals, each a distinct kind of "Sandwich," are pass'd to them down thro' a Hatch. The Remains, including Plates, are thrown out the Window, taken by the Wind. There are Newspapers and a Rack-ful of Books, and under the Driver's seat is a Cask of Philadelphia Porter, whose Tap extends within, for the use of the Passengers. When they must piss, they do so into glaz'd Jars, with Chinese Scenes upon them. By the time they consider pissing out the Coach Doors, so swiftly have they Travel'd, that they miss the Chance. The Driver is calling, "Potowmack just ahead, Gents!" He drops them off by the River, into the Slap and Scent of Winter upon the Wing, and points them uphill. Bearing nothing but what they may have stuff'd hastily into their Pockets, they begin the Ascent to Mount Vernon.
"In their Decadency these Virginians practice an elaborate Folly of Courtly Love, unmodified since the Dark Ages, so relentlessly that at length they cannot distinguish Fancy from the substantial World, and their Folly absorbs them into itself. They gaily dance the steps their African Slaves teach them, whilst pretending to an aristocracy they seem only to've heard rumors of. Their preferr'd sport is the Duel,— part of the definition of 'Gentleman' in these parts seems to be ownership of a match'd set of Pistols.
"To anyone who has observ'd slave-keepers in Africa, it will seem all quite ancient,— Lords and Serfs,— a Gothick Pursuit,— what, in our corrupted Days, has become of Knights and Castles, when neither is any longer reasonable, or possible. No good can come of such dangerous Boobyism. What sort of Politics may proceed herefrom, only He that sows the Seeds of Folly in His World may say."
- The Revd Wicks Cherrycoke, Spiritual Day-Book
Col° Washington turns out to be taller than Dixon, by about as much as Dixon rises over Mason. "Enable us quite nicely to stand in a Shed if we keep a straight line," he greets them, "though Ah wonder why?" In this Province of the Unreflective, if the Colonel serves not as a Focus of Sobriety, neither is he quite the incompetent Fool depicted in the London press, rattling on, ever so jolly, about the whiz of enemy shot through the air, tho' how mean-spirited must we be to refuse Slack in the Sheets of Manhood to a gangling Sprig, sighting one day through the Eye-piece of a Surveyor's Instrument upon a Plummet-String, the next down the barrel of a Rifle at a Frenchman? In his mature person, tho' he will seem from time to time to allow his Gaze to refocus upon something more remote,— yet 'tis as little Fidgeting as Reverie, something purposeful, rather, allowing him to remain attentive to the Topick at hand. When he hears Dixon speak, he smiles, though owing to the state of his teeth he is reluctant to do so when in company,— a smile from Col° Washington, however tentative, is said to be a mark of favor,— "My people come from around your neck of the woods, I think, for I've relatives who talk the way you do."
Dixon cups an ear. "Happen I hear a fading echo of the old Pitman's Lilt...?"
The Col° shrugs. "Up in Pennsylvania they tell me I talk like an African. They imagine us here surrounded with our Tithables, insensibly sliding into their speech, and so, it is implied, into their Ways as well. Come. Observe this Pitcher upon the Table, an excellent Punch, the invention of my Man Gershom."
Out on the white-column'd porch, tumbler in fist, the large Virginian wants to talk real estate. "Sometimes a man must act quickly upon an opportunity, for in volatile times the chance may never come again. Just for example,— there is a parcel out past the South Mountain I'd like you to take a look at when you go by,— your Line, as I project it, passing
quite close. Spotted it early in the War, kept it in mind ever since.... No
reason you fellows shouldn't turn a Shilling or two whilst you're over here...and have ye consider'd how much free surveying ye'll be giving away,— as the West Line must contribute North and South Boundaries to Pieces innumerable? Don't suppose you have a copy of that Contract ye
sign'd.. .well, no matter
Yet I wonder at how you Boys have stirr'd up
the land-jobbers. No one here regards the crest of the Alleghenies as the Barrier it was. You've only to look at the roads, some days the Waggons in a Stream unbroken,— new faces in ships arriving every day, nothing east of Susquehanna left to settle,— the French are out of the Ohio, the Scoundrel Pontiac is vanquish'd, the money is ready, Coffee-Houses in a frenzy of map-sketching and bargaining,— what deters us?”
"General Bouquet's Proclamation,— " Mason suggests, "no new Settlement west of the Allegheny Ridge-Line."
"Poh. The Proprietors won't enforce that."
"Whence then," replies Mason, "the Rumor that Mr. Cresap tried to bribe the General with twenty-five thousand acres, not to proclaim his Line?"
"Hum. Perhaps," chuckles Washington, " 'twas all the old Renegado dared promise,— and Bouquet may have wanted more,— as no Land may be had there now but by his Warrant, his Line might make of him an American Nabob,— as he was not offering his Services out of love for those inexpensive Tokens with which he is synonymous,— rather, the Lord ever Merciful, as in Bengal, sent us a Deliverer whose Appetite for Profit matches his self-confidence. 'Twas Business, more or less Plainly dealt. The next step will be to contract our Indian Wars out to Mercenaries,— preferably school'd in Prussian techniques, as it never hurts to get the best,— tho' many of these Hired professionals miss one pay-day and they're gone like Smoke. Could even be just before a decisive Battle,— forget it, damn 'em, they're off. Did you imagine Bouquet, or the Penns, to be acting out of tender motives, toward the Indians?"