Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Should we be discussing this?"
"Yes,— because all at once one has blunder'd sheep-eyed upon yet one more bloody Mill,— a river turn'd to a Race, the Works lit up in the dark like a great hostelry full of ill-humor'd Elves. Any chances for a few sentimental hours nipp'd, as ever in Glo'rshire, as soon as they may arise. You, simple Geordie, inhabit a part of England where ancient creatures may yet move in the Dusk, and the animals fly, and the dead pop in now and then for coffee and a chat. Upon my home soil, the Ground for growing any such Wonders has been cruelly poison'd, with the coming of the hydraulick Looms and the appearance of new sorts of wealthy individual, the late-come rulers upon whom as a younger person I spied, silent, whilst holding savage feelings within. I was expell'd from Paradise by Wolfe and his Regiment. One Penetration, and no Withdrawal could ever have Meaning. My home's no more."
Does Dixon catch an incompletely suppress'd Lilt of Insincerity? Something's askew. "Thoo are in Exile, then...?”
"With London but the first Station. Then came the Cape. Then St. Helena. Now,— these Provinces. You were there, and are here. You must have seen it,— each time, another step further—"
"Away...? Away from...?"
"Perhaps not away, Dixon. No. Perhaps toward. Hum. Hadn't considered that, hey, Optimism? Exercise yer boobyish Casuistry 'pon that, why don't ye? Toward what?"
"I the Booby...? I...? When indeed,— " but how much further up-field can he bring that, before a Brush from one of Rebekah's potent Wings? "Toward what, then...?" yet in the tone of a Fop to a Bedlamite, concealing the demand, "Amuse me.”
"And they proceeded to trade Blows," cries Pitt.
"Hurrah!" adds Pliny, "— they roll'd over and over, knock'd down the Tent, Mason got a Black Eye,—
"— and Dixon a bloody nose!"
"And the axmen came running, their Coins a-jingle, the pass-bank Bully hastily recording their wagers upon narrow scraps of Elephant,—
"Lomax,— " chides Euphie.
"Boys!" their Parents call. "Bed-Time."
"Us. To bed?" queries Pitt.
"Who should be listening to a Tale of Geminity," explains Pliny, "if not Twins?"
"Your Surveyors were Twins,—
- were they not, Uncle?"
"Up to a point, my barking Fire-Dogs,"— the Revd having thought it over,— "as it seem'd to me, that Mason and Dixon had been converging, to all but a Semblance,— till something...something occurr'd between them, in 'sixty-seven or 'sixty-eight, that divided their Destinies irremediably...."
"Separated them?" cry the Twins.
"Perhaps this would be a good moment for us to abandon the Narrative," says Pitt.
"Best to remember them just this way," agrees Pliny, "before an inch of that Line was ever drawn.”
"Bed-time for Bookends," calls their Sister. The Express Packet Goose-down is whistling all non-Children ashore, back to their storm-wreck'd Jetty, back to their gray unpromising Port-Town. There to bide far into the Night, exiles from the land their Children journey to, and through, so effortlessly.
"What about Indians?" asks Pitt, adhering to the Door-Jamb.
"You did mention Indians," mutters Pliny, around his Brother's Shoulder.
"Do the Surveyors get to fight anyone, at least?"
"Anyone kill'd?"
"A Frigate-Battle isn't enough for you Parlor-Apes?" the Revd smiting himself upon the Cheeks in dismay.
"Pontiac's Conspiracy?" Pitt hopefully.
"Broken, alas, whilst the Surveyors were in Delaware, running the infamous Tangent Line, with its Consort of correctional Segments."
"The Paxton Boys?"
"No likelier. Whilst they rode whooping and shooting upon Philadelphia, the Surveyors were out in the Forks of Brandywine, well south of the Invasion Route, with a new observatory up, and the Stars nimbly hopping the Wires for them, as they gaz'd from someplace here upon Earth's Surface, yet in their Thoughts how unmappable—"
"May we have Indians tomorrow, Uncle?"
"Of course, Pitt."
"Pliny, Sir."
"The Younger." Off they go.
Tenebra?, now the youngest of the company, brings in fresh candles and fills the Tea-kettle and puts it upon the Hearth. DePugh and 'Thelmer observe her covertly as she moves seemingly unaware of the effect her flex'd Nape, her naked Ear swiftly re-conceal'd by a shaken Tress, her Hands in the Firelight, are having upon them.
If Mason's elaborate Tales are a way for him to be true to the sorrows of his own history (the Revd Cherrycoke presently resumes), a way of keeping them safe, and never betraying them, in particular those belonging to
Rebekah,— then Dixon's Tales, the Emersoniana, the ghosts of Raby, seem to arise from simple practical matiness. Who, if not Mason, at any given moment, needs cheering? A cheerful Party-Chief means a cheerful Party.
"Directly before the Falmouth Packet sail'd," he begins, one night as they wait for a Star, "William Emerson presented me with a small mysterious Package...."
' 'Twill not be an easy journey,— " quoth he, "there'll be days when the Compasses run quaquaversally wild, boxing themselves, and you, into Perplexity,— or happen the Stars be absented for fortnights at a time, with your own Pulse, as ever, a suite of changing Tempi. Then will a reliable Ticker come in handy. This one, as you see, is too tarnish'd and wounded, for any British or French thief to consider worth an effort,— yet, Americans being less sophisticated, I'm oblig'd, Jeremiah, to enjoin ye,— be vigilant, to the point of Folly, if Folly it takes, in your care of this Watch, for within it lies a secret mechanism, that will revolutionize the world of Horology."
"Eeh! Calculates when she's over-charging, and by how much, something like thah'?"
"What it does do, Plutonian," Emerson told him, patiently, "is never stop."
"Why aye. And upon the hour it sings 'Yankee Doodle'...?"
"You'll see. 'Tis all in the design of the Remontoire."
"The first thing an Emerson pupil learns, is that there is no Perpetual-Motion," said Dixon, "which I am in fact all these years later still upset about, Sir,— perhaps in some strange way holding thee responsible."
"What're we to do...? 'Tis a Law of the Universe,— Prandium gratis non est. Nonetheless, if we accept the Theorem 'Hand and Key are to Main-spring, as Clock-train is to Remontoire,' then the Solution ever depends upon removing time-rates from questions of storing Power. With the proper deployment of Spring Constants and Magnetickal Gating, Power may be borrow'd, as needed, against repayment dates deferrable indefinitely."
"Sir,— why would thee entrust to me anything so valuable, in so unruly a Country? If it got into the wrong Pocket,— "If anyone tries to dis-assemble it to see how it works, upon the loosening of a certain unavoidable Screw, the entire Contraption will fly apart into a million pieces, and the Secret is preserv'd."
"But the Watch,— "
"Oah, another's easily built,— the Trick's uncommonly simple, once ye've the hang of it."
"Then why aren't these ev'rywhere? If we are arriv'd in the Age of Newton transcended...? Perpetual-Motion commonplace... ? why's it yet a Secret?"
"Interest," chuckl'd Emerson, cryptickally. "In fact, Compound Interest! Eeh, eeh, eeh!"
Now what seems odd to Dixon, is that ten years ago, in Mechanics, or, The Doctrine of Motion, Emerson express'd himself clearly and pessi-mistickally as to any Hopes for building a Watch that might ever keep time at Sea, whose "ten thousand irregular motions" would defeat the regularity of any Time-Piece, whether Spring- or Pendulum-Driven. Whyever then this dubious loan of a time-keeper even less hopeful? Their history in Durham together has been one of many such Messages, not necessarily clear or even verbal, which Dixon keeps failing to understand. He knows, to the Eye-Blink, how implausible Emerson is, as the source of the Watch. Meaning he is an intermediary. For whom? Who in the World possesses the advanc'd Arts, and enjoys the liberal Funding, requir'd for the building of such an Instrument? Eeh,— who indeed?
On the Falmouth Packet coming over, alone with the Enigma at last, he inspects it at length, but is unable to find any provision for winding it,— yet one must be hidden someplace— "Damme," he mutters into the Wind down from Black Head, " 'tis Popish Plots again, thick as Mushrooms 'round the Grave of Merriment." Here they are, these Jezzies, being expell'd from one Kingdom after another,— whence any spare Time to devote to expensive Toys like this? He is a Newtonian. He wants all Loans of Energy paid back, and ev'ry Equation in Balance. Perpetual Motion is a direct Affront. If this Watch be a message, why, it does not seem a kind one.
At last, red-eyed and by now as anxiously seeking, as seeking to avoid, any proof, he delivers the Watch to Captain Falconer, for safekeeping inside the Ship's strong-box, till the end of the Voyage,— find- ing the Time-Piece, upon arrival in Philadelphia, ticking away briskly as ever,— and the counter-rhythms of the Remontoire falling precisely as the Steps of a Spanish dancer. He hopes it might be confiding to him, that its Effect of perfect Fidelity, like that of a clever Woman, is an elaborate and careful Illusion, and no more,— to be believ'd in at his Peril.
"Like to listen?" Dixon offers, one day when he and Mason are out upon the Tangent Line.
"It's all right, I believe you." Mason's eyebrows bouncing up and down politely.
"Mason, it's true! I never have to wind it! Do you ever see me winding it?"
Mason shrugs. "You might be winding it while I'm asleep, or when screen'd, as we so often are one from the other, by Trees,— you might be engaging one of these Rusticks, keeping well out of my sight, to wind it regularly.—
Do I have to go on?"
"Friend. Would I quiz with you 'pon something this serious? All our assumptions about the Conservation of Energy, the Principia, eeh...? our very Faith, as modern Men, suddenly in question like thah'...?"
"Had I tuppence for ev'ry approach made to Bradley upon the Topick of Perpetual-Motion, I should be elsewhere than this,— recumbent I imagine upon some sand beach of the Friendly Isles, strumming my Eukalely, and attended by local Maidens, whom I may even sometimes allow to strum it for me."
"Eeh, you are fair suspicious...? Listen to it, at least...?"
Watch to his ear, frown growing playful, Mason after a bit begins to
sing,
"Ay, Senorit-ta, it Can't, be sweet-ter, what Shall-we, do?
What a Fies-ta, not Much Sies-ta, do you Think-so, too?
Look ye, the, Moon-is ascend-ding, You no comprehend ing-Glés, it's just as well,—
For, I'm-in-your-Spell, what's That-can't-you-tell? Ay, Seen-Yo-ree-tah!
"Yes amusing little rhythm device,— not loud enough for ensemble work of course,—
"Forgive me, Friend, I've again presum'd our Minds running before the same Wind. My deep Error."
Mason in reply begins to wag his Head, as at some unfortunate event in the Street, whilst Dixon grows further annoy'd. "Do tha fancy I've an easy time of it? With the evidence before me, gathering each day I doahn't wind the blasted Watch,— even so, I can't believe in it...? I know thah' old man's idea of Merriment! I am thrown into a Vor-tex of Doubts."
The Watch ticks complexly on,— to Dixon, sworn not to let it out of his sight, a Burden whose weight increases with each nontorsionary day. At last, at some Station ankle-deep in a classically awful Lower Counties Bog, he is able to face the possibility he's been curs'd,— Emerson, long adept at curses, having found himself, he once confess'd to Dixon, using the gift, as he grows older, in the service less of blunt and hot-headed revenge, than of elaborate and mirthful Sport,— directed at any he imagines have wrong'd him. Has Dixon finally made this List? Did he one day cross some Line, perhaps during a conversation he's forgotten but Emerson has ever since been brooding upon, perhaps in detail? Eeh! ev'ry-one's nightmare in these times,— an unremember'd Slight, aveng'd with no warning. "What did I do?" confronting his teacher at last in a Dream, "to merit such harsh reprisal? Had I been that wicked to thee, I'd surely remember...?"
"You violated your Contract," Emerson producing a sheaf of legal
Paper, each Page emboss'd with some intricate Seal, which if not read
properly will bring consequences Dixon cannot voice, but whose Terror
he knows
"Where would you like to begin, Plutonian?"
'Tis now Dixon recalls the advice given Mason at the Cape, by the Negrito Toko,— ever vigorously to engage an Enemy who appears in a dream. He knows that to be drawn into Emerson's propos'd Exercise, is to fight at a fatal disadvantage upon his Enemy's ground. His only course
is to destroy the Document at once,— by Fire, preferably,— tho' the
nearest Hearth is in the next room, too far to seize the papers and run with them— Emerson is reading his Thoughts. "Lo, a Fire-Sign who cannot make Fire." The contempt is overwhelming. Dixon feels Defeat rise up around him. It seems the Watch wishes to speak, but it only struggles, with the paralyz'd voice of the troubl'd Dreamer. Nonetheless, Dixon's Salvation lies in understanding the Message. Whereupon, he awakes, feeling cross.
Tho' sworn to guarantee the Watch's safety, he soon finds his only Thoughts are of ways to rid himself of it. In its day-lit Ticking, the Voice so clogg'd and cryptick in his Dream has begun to grow clearer. Drinking will not send it away. "When you accept me into your life," whispering as it assumes a Shape that slowly grows indisputably Vegetable,— as it lies within its open'd traveling-case of counterfeit Shagreen, glimmering, yes a sinister Vegetable he cannot name, nor perhaps even great Linnaeus,— its Surface meanwhile passing thro' a number of pleasing colors, as its implied Commands are deliver'd percussively, fatally, - you will accept me.. .into your Stomach."
"Eeeeh...," a-tremble, and Phiz far from ruddy, he shows up at the Tent of the camp naturalist, Prof. Voam,— who advises that, "as the Fate of Vegetables is to be eaten,— as success and Reputation in the Vegetable Realm must hence be measured by how many are eaten,— it behooves each kind of Vegetable to look as appetizing as possible, doesn't it, or risk dying where it grew, not to mention having then to lie there, listening to the obloquy and complaint of its neighbors. But, dear me,— as to objects of Artifice,— Watches and so forth..."