Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Why else refrain from expanding West," mildly inquires Dixon, "but out of a regard for the Humanity of those whose Homes they invade?"
"A motive even stronger and purer," frowns Colonel Washington,
- the desire to confound their enemies,— who chiefly are the Presbyterians settling the West, Proclamation-Shmocklamation,— Ulster Scots, who hate England enough to fight against her, now the French are departed,— tho' the cheerfully idiotic, who are numerous, believe such Sectarian passions to lie behind us. The Ulster Scots were dispossess'd once,— shamefully,— herded, transported,— Hostages to the demands of Religious Geography. Then, a second time, were they forc'd to flee the rack-rents of Ulster, for this American unknown. Think ye, there will be any third Coercion? At what cost, pray? Americans will fight Indians whenever they please, which is whenever they can,— and Brits wherever they must, for we will be no more contain'd, than tax'd. The Grenville Ministry ignore these Data, at their Peril."
"Mr. Grenville, alas, neglects to consult me in these Matters," says Mason.
"Wrote to him," adds Dixon,— " 'Tax the East India Company, why don't tha?' Did he even reply?"
"As a rule here," advises the Col", "ye may speak your Minds upon any Topick Politickal. But on no account, ever discuss Religion. If any insist, represent yourselves as Deists. The Back Inhabitants are terrified of all Atheists, especially the Indians,— tho' Englishmen bearing unfamiliar Equipment across their land might easily qualify. Their first Impulse, upon meeting an Atheist, is to shoot at him, often at close range, tho' some of the Lancaster County Rifles are deadly from a mile off,— so running for cover is largely out of the Question. Besides, you cannot know what may be waiting among the Trees...."
"What's that Aroma?" Dixon blurts, knowing quite well, from the Cape, what it is.
"Ah, the new Harvest, how inhospitable of me. 'Tis but a small patch out back, planted as an Experiment,— if it prospers, next season perhaps we'll plant ten Acres, as a Market-Crop. With luck, between the Navy and the New-York Fops, we could get rid of it all, Male and Fim-ble, and see us some Profit. Always a few Shillings in Canary-Seed as well, worse comes to worst.—
Here then,— Gershom! Where be you at, my man!"
An African servant with an ambiguous expression appears. "Yes Mas-suh Washington Suh."
"Gershom fetch us if you will some Pipes, and a Bowl of the new-cur'd Hemp. And another gallon of your magnificent Punch. There's a good fellow. Truly, Gentlemen, 'an Israelite in whom there is no guile.'''
Mason, recognizing the source as John 1:47, actually chuckles, whilst Dixon rather glowers. "At Raby Castle," he informs them, Phiz aflame, "Darlington liked to joak of his Steward, my Great-Uncle George, using thah' same quo-tation from the Bible. Yet only from Our Savior, surely, might such words be allow'd to pass, without raising suspicions as to amplitude of Spirit...? From the Earl of Darlington, the remark was no more than the unconsider'd Jollity one expects of a Castle-Dweller,— but to hear it in America, is an Enigma I confess I am at a loss to explain...?"
"Good Sir," the Colonel smiting himself repeatedly upon the head, unto knocking his Wig askew, "I regret providing the Text for an unwelcome association." He snatches the Wig completely off and bows his
head, cocking one eye at Dixon. "The two Conditions are entirely separate, of course."
"I'm a Quaker," shrugs Dixon, "what am I suppos'd to do, call thee out?"
"Don't bother about that Israelite talk, anyhow," Gershom coming back in with a Tray, "it's his way of joaking, he does it all the time."
"Thou aren't offended?"
"As I do happen to be of the Hebrew faith," tilting his head so that all may see the traditional Jewish Yarmulke, attach'd to the crown of his Peruke in a curious display of black on white, "it would seem a waste of precious time."
"Say,— and cook?" beams George Washington. "Gersh, any them Kasha Varnishkies left?"
"Believe you ate 'em all up for Breakfast, Colonel."
"Well whyn't you just whup up another batch,— maybe fry us some hog jowls, he'p it slide on down?"
"One bi-i-i-g mess o' Hog Jowls, comin' raaight up, Suh!"
"Wait a minute," objects Mason. "Do the Jews not believe, that," glancing over at Dixon, "the Article you speak of, is unclean, and so avoid scrupulously its Flesh?"
"Please,— you don't think I feel guilty enough already? As it happens, the Sect I belong to, is concern'd scarce at all with Dietary Rules."
"— of any kind," adds the Col°, having inhal'd mightily upon his Pipe, whence now arises another aromatic Cloud. "Yet if a Jew cooking pork is a Marvel, what of a Negroe, working a Room? Yes, my Oath,— here is Joe Miller resurrected,— they applaud him 'round a circuit of Coaching-inns upon the roads to George's Town, Williamsburg, and Annapolis,— indeed he is known far and Wide, as a Theatrickal Artist of some Attainment, leaving him less and less time for his duties here,— not to mention an income per annum which creeps dangerously close to that of his nominal Master, me." He passes the Pipe to Dixon.
"He wants me to put it in Dismal Swamp Land Company shares," Gershom confides. "How would you Gentlemen advise me?"
Mason and Dixon make eye contact, Dixon blurting, "Didn't they tell us,— " Mason going, "Shh! Sshhhh!," Washington meanwhile trying to wave Gershom back into the house. Gershom, however, has just taken the Pipe from Mr. Dixon. "Thank you." Inhales. Presently, "Well! How are you, Gentlemen, you having a good time? That's quite some Coat you're wearing, Sir. It's, ah, certainly is red, ain't it? And those silver Buttons,— mighty shiny,— tell me, seriously now, you were planning to wear this, out into the Forest?"
"Why, why aye,— "
"Actually, bright red, it's quite a la mode out there, seen rather often,— down the barrels of cheap Rifles.—
You'll be very popular with all kinds of Folk,— Delawares, Shawanese, Seneca,— Seneca fancy a nice red Coat.—
So !" passing the Pipe to Mason, "I can see which one's the snappy Dresser,— whilst the Indians are shooting at him, the Pres-byterians'll be after you, thinking you're something to eat,— 'It's a Buffalo, I'm tellin' ye, mon!' 'Hush, Patrick, it seem'd but a Squirrel to me.' 'So it's a Squirrel!' ffsss— pom;/"
"Oblig'd of course," squawks Mason, "ever so kind to imagine for me my Death in America.. .need no longer preoccupy myself upon the Matter, kind yes and withal a great relief,— "
Gershom turning to Dixon, "Is he always like this, or does he get indignant sometimes?"
"You see what I have to put up with," groans Col° Washington. "It's makin' me just mee-shugginah. Here, a bit of Tob'o with that?..."
"George."
"Oh-oh, stay calm, it's the Wife, just let me do the— ah my Treasure! excellent Gown, handsome Stuff,— allow me to present," and so forth. Mrs. Washington ("Oh, la, call me Martha, Boys") is a diminutive woman with a cheerful rather than happy air, who seems to bustle even when standing still. At the moment she is carrying an enormous Tray pil'd nearly beyond their Angles of Repose with Tarts, Pop-overs, Gingerbread Figures, fried Pies, stuff'd Doughnuts, and other Units of Refreshment the Surveyors fail to recognize.
"Smell'd that Smoak, figur'd you'd be needing something to nibble on," the doughty Mrs. W. greets them. "The Task as usual falling to that Agent of Domesticity unrelenting, the wife,— as none of you could run a House for more than ten minutes, in the World wherein most of us must dwell, without Anarchy setting in.”
"I was suppos'd to be watching a Pot upon the fire," sighs Washington, "— matters more immediate claim'd my attention, one giving rise to yet another, till a certain Odor recall'd me to the Pot, alas too late,— another ruinous flaw in my Character, perhaps one day to be amended by me, though never to be forgiven by my Lady."
She shakes her head, eyes yawing more than rolling. "George, have a Cookie." He takes a Molasses ginger-bread man, closely examines its Reverse, as if to assure himself that his Wife hasn't somehow burn'd it, and is about to bite the head off, when something else occurs to him.
"Now you may have heard of the Ohio Company,— a joint adventure in which my late brothers had a few small shares. There we were, as deep in the savage state as men have been known to venture, often no clear line of Retreat, a sort of,— Marth, my Nosegay of Virtues, what's a piece of tricky weaving?"
"How," she replies, "pray, would I know? Am I a Weaver?"
- a piece of tricky weaving," the Col° has tried to continue, "— order, I mean to say, in Chaos. Markets appearing, with their unwritten Laws, upon ev'ry patch of open ground, power beginning to sort itself out, Line and Staff,—
Mason and Dixon, in arranging for a fair division of labor, have adopted the practice, whenever two conversations are proceeding at once, of each attending one, with Location usually deciding who gets which. So it falls to Mason to defend his Profession against what he suspects is Mrs. W.'s accusation of unworldliness, whilst Dixon must become emmesh'd in Ohio Company history.
"— with our own forts at Wills and Redstone Creeks, and a Commu
nication between
As the East India Company hath its own Navy, why,
so did we our own Army. Out in the wild Anarchy of the Forest, we alone had the coherence and discipline to see this land develop'd as it should be. Rest easy, that the old O.C. still exists," the Col° is protesting, "tho' in different Form."
"Sounds like the After-life," Gershom remarks.
"If only we could've gotten the language we wanted in the Charter, the Tale might have been different. But our friends at Court are few, and now and then invisible, even to us.”
"They fail'd to get the Bishop-of-Durham Clause," puts in Gershom.
"Look ye,— wasn't it like Iron Plate upon a Steam-Boiler for ev'ryone else? Virginia? The Calverts, the Penns? Ohio by precedent surely is entitl'd to one?"
"All respect, Colonel, those Grants," Gershom points out, "were more like fantastickal Tales, drafted in the days of some Kings who were not altogether real themselves. 'Twas a world of Masquing then, Fictions of faraway lands, what did they care? 'Bishop-of-Durham Clause? no problem with that,— how can we set you up, a Palatine Residence? 'tis yours,— you like cedar shakes, brick, traditional Stone approach, whatever, it's fine,— what's that, you want to put in a what, a Harem? why to be sure,— and how many Ladies would that be, Sir? of course you've a choice,— Lord Smedley, the Catalogue, please.''
"Any Bishop-of-Durham Clause in America," says Dixon, "suggests a likeness, in the British Mind, between your Indians West of the Allegheny Ridge, and their Scots beyond Hadrian's Wall,— as the Bishop Prince's half of the bargain, is to defend the King against whatever wild cannibal Host lies North of us,— whose nightly Bagpipe-Musick, in the time of the 'Forty-five, could easily bring all within earshot to insomniack Terror by Dawn."
"Why, Sir," exclaims the Col", "you might be describing a camp upon
Monongahela, and the Death-hollows all night from across the River.
The long watchfulness, listening to the Brush. Ev'ry mis'rable last Leaf.
The Darkness implacable. When you gentlemen come to stand at the
Boundary between the Settl'd and the Unpossess'd, just about to enter
the Deep Woods, you will recognize the Sensation
"Yet, we sought no more than to become that encampment in the Night, that small refuge of Civilization in the far Wilderness."
"Trouble was, so'd the French," Gershom remarks.
"Thankee, Gersh."
Mason meanwhile is embark'd upon an Apologia for Astronomy and his own career therein. "The dispute is at least as old as Plato. Indeed, I feel like Glaucon in the Seventh Book of the 'Republic,' nervously listing for Socrates all the practical reasons he can think of for teaching Astronomy in the schools.”
"Let's see, then, do I feel like Socrates...? Alas, Sir, I think not today,— nor Mrs. Socrates, neither,— that no doubt otherwise excellent Lady being, as I am told, far too busy with shrewish pursuits to bother with her Kitchen, and thus scarcely able to suggest to you, for example, this excellent Apricot Tart."
Mason is not sure, but thinks he has just detected a certain Cilial Excursion. "Obliged, Ma'am. All Lens-fellows, I mean, recognize that our first Duty is to be of publick Use. Hmm, oh, the Raspberry, too, then— Thankee. Even with the Pelhams currently in Eclipse, we all must proceed by way of th' establish'd Routes, with ev'ry farthing we spend charg'd finickingly against the Royal Purse. We are too visible, up on our Hilltop, to spend much time among unworldly Speculations, or indeed aught but the details of our Work,— focus'd in particular these days upon the Problem of the Longitude."
"Oh. And what happen'd to those Transits of Venus?"
"There we have acted more as philosophical Frigates, Ma'am, each detach'd upon his Commission,— whilst the ev'ryday work of the Observatories goes on as always, for the task at Greenwich, as at Paris, is to know every celestial motion so perfectly, that Sailors at last may trust their lives to this Knowledge."
"Here," the Col° beams, "more fame attaches to the Transits,— Observers station'd all 'round the world, even in Massachusetts,— Treasuries of all lands pouring forth gold,— ev'ry Astronomer suddenly employ'd,— and all to find a true value for the 'Earth's Parallax.' Why, most of us here in Virginia wouldn't know a Parallax from a Pinwheel if it came on up and said how-d'ye do."
"Yet, what a Rage it was! the Transit-of-Venus Wig, that several women were seen wearing upon Broad Street, Husband, do ye remember it? a dark little round Knot against a great white powder'd sphere,—
"And that Transit-of-Venus Pudding? Same thing, a single black Currant upon a Circular Field of White,—
- and the Sailors, with that miserable song,—
' 'Tis time to set sail, [sings the Col°] Farewell, Portsmouth Ale,
Ta-ta to the gay can-tinas, For we're off, my Girl, to the end of the world To be there, ere the Tran-sit of Venus.— She's the something something,—