Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Armand has taught me how." She has stepp'd into the room and shut the door behind her, and now stands observing him, surpriz'd at how tat-ter'd seems his Foppery in the Day-time.
"No one sharpens this but me, this is genuine Damascus Steel, for Heaven's sake,— here, then, let us see the Damage." Taking what seems far too long, he peers up and down the newly glitt'ring Edge, and is soon making ornamental Lunges and Passes in the Air, presenting each Leg a number of times for her Consideration, adjusting his Cuffs and Stock unceasingly. "Hmm. Appears that you may understand something about Blades—" A complicated assault upon a Candle-stick. "Feels a little slow. Us'd to be faster. Is there a fruitful lawsuit here? yes perhaps I shall take Knockwood to court, if Spring ever comes,— say, Frowline, your Cap,.. .what d'you think you're doing?"
The Goose. She is untying her Cap, then taking it slowly off, unbinding and shaking out her Hair. She is making it ripple for him. She is getting it to catch the winter Light thro' the Window. She is so flabber-gasting this Macaroni with it that he seems to fall into a contemplative Daze before the deep Undulations, a Dreamer at the Edge of the Sea. Outdoors, the Snow is upon the Glide yet again, and soon 'twill be Night. She remembers all the Leagues of Snow-cover'd Terrain between here and the Redzinger Farm, all going dark, the City she cannot quite believe in that lies ahead, her Father's Resurrection and Departure, her Mother's visible Change, and lastly her own, which she can as little command as explain,— Breasts, Hips, Fluxes, odd Swoons, a sharpening Eye for lapses of Character in young Men. "The Lord provides," her Mother has told her. "Wisdom comes to us, even as it appears to leave Men. You won't need to go all the way to Philadelphia. Nor much further than the Town, upon Market Day, so."
He has begun apologizing for his Assault upon the Frenchman. " 'Twas vile of me. I know you are his Friend,— I wish there were some way... ?"
"Simply tell him. Isn't it done among you?"
"Go into that Kitchen? You've seen his Battery,— the Knives, the Cleavers? Mrs. Dimdown rais'd no Idiots, Frowline."
"Oh, if you knew Armand." She laughs merrily.
"I am become a Target for his Instruments edg'd and pointed. There, our Relation appears at a Stand-still.”
"But recall, that no one here has ever seen Armand cut anything. That's why he's teaching me how to,— so that I can do what he can no longer bear. Perhaps it is my Mother's doing,— he has forsworn Violence in the Kitchen,— not only toward Meat, but the Vegetables as well, for as little now can he bring himself to chop an Onion, as to slice a Turnip, or even scrub a Mushroom."
"Perhaps you oughtn't to be telling me. A man needs his Reputation."
"But as a veteran Bladesman, you would never take advantage of him, I'm sure?"
His face grows pink and swollen, a sign she knows,— she has been blurted at by young men. Feeling behind her for the Door-knob, she is surpriz'd to find herself several steps from it, well within the Room. "Mr. Dimdown, I trust you are well?"
"Philip," he mumbles, "actually," putting his Hanger back in its Scabbard. "As you have confided in me, so may I admit to you, that I have never, well that is not yet, been obliged to, uh in fact,..."
"Oh, I can see you've never been in a Duel." She pushes aside some hair that may be screening the full effect of the Sparkle in her eyes.
"Ruin!— Ah! You must despise me."
She shrugs, abruptly enough to allow him to read it, if he wishes, as a sympathetick Shiver. "We have had enough of fighting, out where we live,— it is not to me the Novel Thrill, that some Philadelphia Girl might think it." Taking up hair that has fallen forward over her right Shoulder, she shifts the Locks back, and slowly leftward, tossing her head from time to time.
Ignoring this opening, all a-fidget, "Are you the only one that can see it, or does ev'ryone know that I've never been out? as if, engrav'd upon my Head, or something?"
"Calm...Philip. I'll tell no one."
In lurches the Landlord. "Your mother's looking for you, Miss." Flourishing his Eyebrows at them both.
"Trouble," mutters young Dimdown.
"He wishes to apologize to Monsieur Allègre," Mitzi quickly sings out, "isn't that it, Sir?"
"Uhm, that is,— "
"Excellent, I can arrange that," and Mr. Knockwood dashes off again.
"I'm putting my life in your hands, here," says Philip Dimdown. "No one else is what they seem,— why should you be?"
'Tis only now that Mitzi, at last, finds herself a-blush, this being her very first Compliment, and a roguish one at that. He seems at once considerably wiser, if no older.
And presently, in the afternoon Lull between meals, the peace is made, the two men shaking hands at the kitchen door, and commencing to chatter away like two Daws upon a Roof-top. Luise comes by with a Tray-ful of Dutch Kisses, provoking witty requests, most of which, though not all, she avoids gracefully.
"Damme for a Bun-brain, Mounseer,— as if I'd actually impale the greatest Cook in the Colonies,—
"But your movement with the Blade,— so elegant, so professionel."
"Not exactly the great Figg, I regret to say,— indeed, never closer to the real thing, than private Lessons, at an establishment in New-York, from a Professor Tisonnier.—
"But I knew him! in France!— Oui, he once commented upon my brais'd Pork Liver with Aubergines,— offer'd to teach me the St. George Parry if I'd give him the Receipt."
"He was esteem'd for that, indeed, and for his Hanging Guard,— I'd show you it, but I wouldn't want to nick up the old Spadroon."
"Damascus steel, 's it not? Fascinating. How is that Moire effect done?"
"By twisting together two different sorts of Steel, or so I am told,— then welding the Whole."
"A time-honor'd Technique in Pastry as well. The Armorers of the Japanese Islands are said to have a way of working carbon-dust into the steel of their Swords, not much different from how one must work the Butter into the Croissant Dough. Spread, fold, beat flat, spread, again and again, eh? till one has created hundreds of these prodigiously thin layers."
"Gold-beating as well, now you come to it," puts in Mr. Knockwood,
- 'tis flatten and fold, isn't it, and flatten again, among the thicknesses of Hide, till presently you've these very thin Sheets of Gold-Leaf."
"Lamination," Mason observes.
"Lo, Lamination abounding," contributes Squire Haligast, momentarily visible, "its purposes how dark, yet have we ever sought to produce
these thin Sheets innumerable, to spread a given Volume as close to pure Surface as possible, whilst on route discovering various new forms, the Leyden Pile, decks of Playing-Cards, Contrivances which, like the Lever or Pulley, quite multiply the apparent forces, often unto disproportionate results...."
"The printed Book," suggests the Revd, "— thin layers of pattern'd Ink, alternating with other thin layers of compress'd Paper, stack'd often by the Hundreds."
"Or an unbound Heap of Broadsides," adds Mr. Dimdown, "dispers'd one by one, and multiplying their effect as they go."
The Macaroni is of course not what he seems, as which of us is?— the truth comes out weeks later, when he is discover'd running a clandestine printing Press, in a Cellar in Elkton. He looks up from the fragrant Sheets, so new that one might yet smell the Apprentices' Urine in which the Ink-Swabs were left to soften, bearing, to sensitiz'd Nasalia, sub-Messages of youth and Longing,— all about him the word repeated in large Type, LIBERTY.
One Civilian leads in a small band of Soldiers. "Last time you'll be seeing that word."
"Don't bet your Wife's Reputation on it," the Quarrelsome Fop might have replied. Philip Dimdown, return'd to himself, keeps his Silence.
"If we choose to take the Romantic approach,—
"We must," appeals Tenebras. "Of course he was thinking about her. How did they part?"
"Honorably. He kept up the Fop Disguise till the end."
"Impossible, Uncle. He must have let her see.. .somehow,. .at the last moment, so that then she might ciy, bid him farewell, and the rest."
"The rest?" Ives alarm'd.
"After she meets someone else."
"Aaahhgghh!" groans Ethelmer.
"Never ends!" adds Cousin DePugh.
"All right then, if tha really want to know what I think,—
"Of course."
The Surveyors have been at this since Noon. Squire Haligast predicts an end to the general Incarceration by tomorrow. Ev'ryone not yet reel'd away into Madness prays that it be so, for no one here can bear much more Company.
"Without meaning offense, then...? 'tis against Nature."
"What! to mourn my Wife?"
"Not to be seeking another...?"
For a moment Mason inspects his Co-Adjutor's Shins,— then his eyes shift away, and grow unfocus'd. "Were we in Gloucester, I should expect, naturally, to hear such useful advice as this. 'Tis the expected thing. Simple country Procedure. Alas, I may have stopt in London for too long, breathing its mephitic airs, abiding too close to its Evil unsleeping. I know I have been corrupted,— but perhaps it has un-mann'd me as well."
"You're just not getting out enough... ?"
"Out! Out where?" Gesturing at the Window, "White Mineral Desolation, unvarying and chill,—
"Out of your Melancholy."
Try as he may, Mason can detect in this nought but kind Intent. "I only hope you're not suggesting anyone in our immediate Company,— I mean, you haven't been,— that is, what am I saying, of course you've...," his eyes happening to fall upon Dixon's Stomach, whose size and curvature seem different to him, somehow (the Figure of it indeed changing, one day to the next, the rest of us watching in some alarm its Transition from a Spheroid vertically dispos'd, to one more wide than high). "Ah. "Pis someone in the Kitchen. Am I right?"
"Either that or I'm pregnant,'" holding his Corporation and gazing down at it. "If so, 'twould be by Maureen, for I've been true to no other,— she being the one you'll recall who bakes—
"— the Pies," Mason is joyous to enumerate, "the Tarts, the, the Jam-stuff'd Dough-nuts, the lengthy Menu of French Cremes and Mousses, the Fruit-Cakes soak'd in Brandy be it Feast-day or no,—
"Stop...?" cries Dixon, "tha're making me hungry."
"Ahrrh...," warns Mason.
"Sure you wouldn't like to just pop back to the Bake-house, take a chance that she's in, find one or two of those iced Waffles, aye she or her friend Pegeen, happen you've seen her, the Red-head with the Curls...? Wears green all the time...?"
"There it is. Damme! you persist.—
Whenever I begin to imagine we're past this.—
One or two malicious Jokes, that's fine, I'm a good Sport,— but pray you, grant me a Respite, no Pegeens."
"Perhaps I'm only trying to get thee to eat something. This self-denying has its limits,— tha're down to skin and bones with it, 'tis an Affliction Sentimental, in which Melancholy hath depress'd thy Appetite for any Pleasure."
"Hold,— you're sitting there like Henry the Eighth, advising me upon Dietary matters? Regard yourself, Sir,— how are we to do accurate work in the Field, with you subtending so many Degrees of it, even at the Horizon?— What is this Spheroid you bear," tapping Dixon's Belly, "or rather lug about, like some Atlas who doesn't plan to bring the Globe all that far?"
" 'Tis prolate, still," with a long dejected Geordie 0. "Isn't it... ?"
"I'm an Astronomer,— trust me, 'tis gone well to oblate. Thanks for your concern at the altitude of my spirits,— but what you're really seeking, is an Accomplice in the pursuit of your own various fitful Vices.”
So, by the time the Snow abates enough to allow them to rejoin the Har-lands, the Surveyors, having decided thereafter to Journey separately, one north and one south, to see the country, return to the Harlands the use of their Honeymoon Quilt, and kindly allow John Harland to toss one of his new silver Shilling Pieces, which lands Heads, sending Mason North and Dixon South. Next time, they agree to reverse the Directions.
"Happen I'll find someplace warm at last," Dixon a bit too cheerfully.
"See here, I hope we'll go ahead with it,— I mean, it's been like a Booth-load of Puppets swinging Clubs all about, hasn't it."
"Ah know, Ah'm as unquiet as thee,— why aye, we must spread out, the one thing we knoaah of this Place, is, that Dimension Abounds...?"
("Dixon was first to leave," the Revd relates, "and with no indication in the Field-Book of where he went or stopp'd, let us assume that he went first to Annapolis,—
"How 'assume'?" objects Ives. "There are no Documents, Wicks? Perhaps he stay'd on at Harland's and drove all of them south, with his drunken intriguing after ev'ry eligible,— meaning ev'ry,— Milkmaid in the Forks of Brandy-wine."
"Or let us postulate two Dixons, then, one in an unmoving Stupor throughout,— the other, for Simplicity, assum'd to've ridden,— as Mason would the next year,— out to Nelson's Ferry over Susquehanna, and after crossing, perhaps,— tho' not necessarily,— on to York,— taking then the Baltimore Road south, instead of the one to Frederick, as Mason would,— south, to Baltimore, and thro' it, ever southing, toward Annapolis, and Virginia beyond. Tho' with suspicions as to his Calvert Connections already high, Dixon might have avoided Maryland altogether, instead of tempting Fate.")
He comes into Annapolis by way of the Rolling-roads, intended less for the Publick than for the Hogsheads of Tobacco being roll'd in to Market from distant Plantations, night and day, with two or three men to each Hogshead,— African Slaves, Irish Transportees, German Redemption-ers and such, who understand well enough that others might also prefer to travel this way. In Town, Dixon roams unfocus'd from Waggoners' Tav-
erns to harbor-front Sailors' Dens,— "Only looking for that Card-game," he replies if ask'd, and if they say, "What Card-game?" he beams ever-so-sorry and retreats from the Area, feigning confusion about ev'rything save the way out, for one Tavern is as likely as another to provide opportunities for Mischief.
He has certainly, and more than once, too, dreamt himself upon a dark Mission whose details he can never quite remember, feeling in the grip of Forces no one will tell him of, serving Interests invisible. He wakes more indignant than afraid. Hasn't he been doing what he contracted to do,— nothing more? Yet, happen this is exactly what they wanted,— and his Sin is not to've refus'd the Work from the outset.—