Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"This may seem an odd question, Sir,— but...have I been in here before?”
"Goodness no, yet how many times a day do I get ask'd that very thing.
Diff'rent Visitors with diff'rent Expectations. You strike me as the
English Tavern sort, and so you'll be noticing there's less Reserve 'round
here than you may be us'd to,— tho' any who seek a Quarrel may read
ily find it, yea unto Dirks and Pistols, if that truly be your Preference
Howbeit,— make yourself at home, and good Luck in America."
Dixon beamingly adverts to the early Crowd, here, immediately noticing Dr. Franklin's friend Dolly, tho' she's certainly not as eye-catchingly rigg'd out tonight as he's seen her before,— nor can he immediately 'spy any of her Companions. Soberly consulting a large Map upon a Mahogany Desk-top, she holds a pair of Silver Dividers, multiply-jointed, tending to White Gold in the Candle-light,— and refers repeatedly to a Book of Numerickal Tables, now and then gracefully walking the Instrument up, down, and 'cross its paper Stage. When she looks up at last, he guesses from her eyes that she knows he's been there, all the time. "Why Mr. Dixon. Well met." Holding out her hand, and before Dixon can begin to incline to kiss it, shaking his, as men do. "These Data arriv'd but this Instant, by the German Packet,— the latest Declination Figures. Our easterly movement, in Pennsylvania, as it's been doing in latter Years, decelerates yet,— here, 'tis four point five minutes east," as Dixon attentively gazes over her shoulder, "when in the year 'sixty, 'twas four point six. If you head South, 'twill be three point nine at Baltimore."
"Were these measur'd Heights," he murmurs, "a very Precipice."
"What could be causing it, do you imagine?"
"Something underground, moving Westward...?"
"Hush." Her Eyes rapidly sweep the Vicinity. "No one ever speaks of that aloud here,— what sort of incautious Lad are you, exactly?"
"Why, the usual sort, I guess."
"Well." She pulls him into an alcove. "Rather took you for an All-Nations Lad, myself."
"Been there." The serving-girls at The All-Nations Coffee-House are costumed in whimsical versions of the native dress of each of the coffee-producing countries,— an Arabian girl, a Mexican girl, a Javanese girl, and according to Dolly, a Sumatran girl as well,— a constantly shifting Pageant of allegorical Coffees of the World, to some ways of thinking, in
fact, quite educational, tho' attracting a core Clientele louder, beefier, and altogether less earnest than Dixon by now expects to find in Philadelphia.
"Mm-Hmm...? Sumatran, tha say...?"
"You seem about to swoon, Sir."
He takes a delighted breath. "Ah don't know how much of my story tha may already have heard," bringing his Chair closer, "- - or, to be fair to Mason, our story."
She shifts her own Chair away. "You and Mr. Mason are.. .quite close, I collect."
"Huz? We get along. This is our second Job together...? The Trick is all in stayin' out of each other's way, really."
"There are Arrangements in the World," she explains, "too sadly familiar to Women, wherein, as we say among us, with the one, you get the other as well,—
"Lass, Lass...? Eeh, what a Suggestion. We'd make thah' one only to
our Commissioners, I vouch
Unless, that is, tha're indicating some
interest in Mason?"
"Or asking 'pon Molly's behalf," her Eye-Lashes indulging in an extra Bat. "This gets very complicated, doesn't it?"
"Mason does need to be out more, for fair. Ah'm but thinkin' o' meself, here...? Ever been coop'd up with a Melancholick, for days on end?"
Dolly shrugs. "Oh, aye, Molly Sour-Apple. She's lucky I don't get like that. Two of us? Forget it."
"I find it hard work to be cheery all the time," says Dixon, "— as cheery as it seems I must."
"Really,— tell me all. The Way your Face begins to ache."
" 'Here's the Optimist,' wagging their Thumbs. Mr. Franklin must get thah' all the time...?"
"Mr. Franklin does not confide in me, nor would I encourage him to. He is too charming, too mysterious, entirely the wrong sort for a great Philosopher."
Dixon touches the end of his Nose. "Ow!" shaking his finger back and forth. "Needs some filing down. Do excuse me."
"My Tale is simple. I held my first Mariner's Compass when I was nine, an age when Girls develop unforeseen yet passionate Interests. I
believ'd there was a Ghost in the Room. I walk'd with it, then, ev'ry-where. The first thing I understood was that it did not always point North...and it was the Dips and Deflexions I grew most curious about."
"In my Circumferentor Box, I learn'd to read what Shapes lay beneath the Earth, all in the Needle's Dance...? Upon the Fell, as if there were not enough already out there to bring me anxiety, I discover'd my Instrument acting as a Cryptoscope, into Powers hidden and waiting the Needles of Intruders, set up as a picket to warn Something within of any unannounc'd wishes to enter. No Creatures of the Fell I'd ever heard of enjoy'd that much Protection,— being shabby, solitary, notable more for the irrational fierceness of their Desires, than for any elegance or Justice in the enactment of them."
"You have impress'd them in Maryland," she informs him. "Cecilius Calvert, or, as he is styl'd by some, for his unreflective effusions, 'The Silliest' Calvert,— tho' not by me, for I consider him subtle,— believes you a Wizard, a Dowser of Iron."
"Close attention to the Instrument, a lot of Back-sighting, repetition, and frustration,— why disenchant them? If it's Weird Geordie Powers they wish, why W.G.P.'s they shall have, and plenty of them too...? Mr. Calvert offer'd me Port, in a Silver Cup...? Seem'd quite merry...?"
"In most places it is term'd, 'Giggling.' They are Geese, down there. They imagine, that you and your Instrument will make of them Nabobs, like Lord Lepton, to whose ill-reputed Plantation you must be drawn, upon your way West, resistlessly as the Needle. Then, Sailor among the Iron Isles,— Circumferentor Swab,— Beware.”
One morning in late December, they wake to a smell of Sea-Weed and Brine. The Wind is sensibly colder,— before it swiftly run gray small clouds, more and less dark. Light, when it arrives, comes ever crosswise. "Something wrong with the Town this morning," Dixon mutters.
"And what's that G-dawful twittering sound?"
"Styl'd'Birds,'I'm told...?"
"How's it possible we've never heard any here before,— Dixon! Hold,— the Hammers! the Rip-Saws! the Meat-Waggons! the Screaming uninterrupted! what's happen'd?"
"Eeh.. .it's been Christmas, hasn't it...?"
"One of us," Mason declares, "must put on his Shoes and Coat, and go down into that Street, there, and discover the reason for this unsettling Silence."
"Eeh, so let's have Junior's Arse in the Roasting-Pan once again, shall we,— thah's bonny!" protests Dixon.
"Be practical,— if they kill you, and I remain safe, the loss to British Astronomy, if any, will go largely unnotic'd."
"Well,— put thah' way, of course,— where's m' Hat, then...?, not that one, thankee, Sir...?, no, I'll need the Broad-Brim today,—
"You're going out as a Quaker?"
"Eeh! He has Costume-Advice for me now as well! He, who all too plainly exhibits his Need, when in Publick, ever to deflect Attention,— - Inexpensive Salvo," Mason notes.
"Geordie Intuition, then," Dixon tapping his Head with the side of his Thumb, before pulling on a classick Philadelphia Quaker's Hat, differing in little but Size from thousands of others here in Town. "Trust mine. In London they may sift you by your Shoes,— but in this Place, 'tis Hat and Wig by which a man, aye and Woman too, may infallibly be known."
"They've been looking at, at my Wig, all this time? My Hat? Dixon,— you're sure?"
"Aye, and forming Opinions bas'd upon what they saw, as well...?"
"...Oh. Ehm, what, f'r example?"
"Eeh, what matter,— 'tis much too late...? they've all made up their minds about thee by now."
"Then I'll wear something else."
"So then they'll be on about thah',— 'Aye there he is, old Look Before Ye Leap,— he, bold enough to clap on anything as stylish as the Adonis? eeh no, 'tis but the tried and true for old Heavens What'll They Think o' Me.' "
"What,— my Wig, it isn't...adventurous enough, you're saying."
"Attend me, man, Molly and Dolly, remember them? discuss little but thy Appearance, and ways to modify it, at least in my hearing,— ruining, alas, and more than once, the promise of a Sparkish Evening,— thy Wig in particular provoking one of the greatest,— forgive me,— of all my Failures of Attention."
"It's a Ramillies, of the middling sort.. .bought some years since of a fugitive Irish Wig-Maker at Bermondsey...styl'd himself 'Mister Larry, Whilst Ye Tarry'...nothing remarkable at all about it. You say you've been spending time with— "
"Time and Coin and little else, aye but thah's another Tale, 's it not...? withal, my Reconnaissance mission awaits, and Damme, I'm Off!" And he is, Mason following so closely as nearly to have his Nose caught in the Jamb.
"Wait,— I was going out wi' ye!" Hopping down the stairs into his Shoes, attempting to button his Jacket, "How are you fitting that in, among all the Obs and Social Visits?"
"Fitting whah' in...?" Dixon staring in comick Dismay down toward his Penis, as he has seen Market-place Drolls do. The Snow this morn-
ing is ankle-deep, crepitous, with more on the way. The Street before the Inn seems deserted. "Odd for Wednesday Market...?"
' Tis another damn'd Preacher," Mason opines, "who's magnetiz'd the whole Population away to a Tent someplace. You know how they are, here. Flock to anything won't they, worldly Philadelphians."
The nearest Coffee-House, The Restless Bee, lies but a block and a half distant. There, if anyplace, should be News, up-to-the-Minute. On the way over, they begin at last to hear Ships' Bells and Boatswains' Pipes from the Docks, Children out coasting, dogs barking, a Teamster with a laden Waggon in a Snow-Drift, and presently indeed the crescent Drone and Susurrus of Assembly. Directly in front of The Restless Bee, they come upon a Circle of Citizens, observing, and in some cases wagering upon, a furious Struggle between two Men, one to appearance a City Quaker, whose Hat has been knock'd off,— the other, an apparent Presbyterian from the Back-Country, dress'd in Animal Hides from Head to Foot,— each having already taken a number of solid Blows from the other, neither showing any lapse of Pugnacity.
"Excuse me, Sir," Mason inquires of a Gentleman in full Wig, Velvet Coat, and Breeches, and carrying a Lawyer's Bag, "— what is the Matter here?"
The Attorney, after staring at them for a bit, introduces himself as Mr. Chantry. "Ye're from well out of Town if ye've not heard the news."
"Eeh," Dixon's Eyes seeking the Zenith.
"At Lancaster,— day before yesterday,— the Indians that were taking refuge in the Gaol there, were massacr'd ev'ry one, by local Irregulars,— the same Band that slew the other Indians at Conestoga, but week before last."
"So finishing what they'd begun," contributes an Apron'd Mechanick nearby. "Now the entire Tribe is gone, the lot."
"Were there no Soldiers to prevent it?" Dixon asks.
"Colonel Robertson and his Regiment of Highlanders refus'd to stir, toasting their Noses whilst that brave Paxton Vermin murder'd old people, small children, and defenseless Drunkards."
"Not being men enough to face Warriors, in a real Fight."
"Mind yeer Speech, Friend, or 'tis your Hat'll be on the Ground as well, and your Head in it.”
"And here's to Matt Smith, and Revd. Stewart!"
"Here's Death to 'em, the cowardly Dogs!" Further Insults, then Snow-Balls, Fists, and Brickbats, begin to fly.
"This way, Gentlemen," Mr. Chantry helpfully steering the Surveyors to the Alley and thro' a back Entry into the Coffee-House, where they find Tumult easily out-roaring what prevails outside. With its own fuliginous Weather, at once public and private, created of smoke billowing from Pipes, Hearths, and Stoves, the Room would provide an extraordinary sight, were any able to see, in this Combination, peculiar and precise, of unceasing Talk and low Visibility, that makes Riot's indoor Sister, Conspiracy, not only possible, but resultful as well. One may be inches from a neighbor, yet both blurr'd past recognizing,— thus may Advice grow reckless and Prophecy extreme, given the astonishing volume of words moving about in here, not only aloud but upon Paper as well, Paper being waved in the air, poked at repeatedly for emphasis, held up as Shielding against uncongenial remarks. Here and there in the Nebulosity, lone Lamps may be made out, at undefin'd Distances, snugly Halo'd,— Servant-Boys moving to and fro, House-Cats in warm currents of flesh running invisibly before them, each Boy vigorously working his small Bellows to clear a Path thro' the Smoke, meantime calling out Names true and taken.
"Boy, didn't they tell you that Name is never to be spoken aloud in this Room?"
"Ha!" from somewhere in the Murk, "so ye've sneak'd in again, where yer face can't be seen!"
"I have ev'ry right, Sir,—
"Boy, clear me a pathway to that infamous Voice, and we shall see,—
"Gentlemen, Gentlemen!"
"There'll be Pistol-Play soon enough, by the looks of this new Express here, just arriv'd from over Susquehanna, for there's no doubt about it now,— the Paxton Boys are on the Move."
"Hurrah!"
"Shame!"
"How many, Jephthah?"
' 'Tis Micah. An hundred, and picking up Numbers by the Hour. So says it here." Smokers pause in mid-puff. The communal Vapors
presently beginning to thin, human forms emerge in outline, some standing upon Chairs and even Tables, others seeking, in literal Consternation, refuge beneath the Furniture.
"The Boys say they're coming for the Moravian Indians this time."
"Indians, in Philadelphia?" Dixon curiously.
Mr. Chantry explains. Converted by the Moravian Brethren years before the last French war, caught between the warring sides, distrusted by ev'ryone, wishing only to live a Christian Life, these Indians were peacefully settl'd up near the Lehigh when the Rangers there came after them, but a few Weeks before the Conestoga murders, suspecting them of being in League with Pontiac, whose depredations were then at their full Flood. Tho' some of these People were slain, yet most escaped, arriving at Philadelphia in November,— "About the time you boys did, in fact,— 'spite of the Mob at Germantown, who nearly did for 'em,— and now an hundred forty Souls, from Wyalusing and Wecquetank and Nazareth, they're down at Province Island, below the City, where the Moravians and Quakers tend them,— the Army, given its showing at Lancaster, being no longer trusted."