Authors: Thomas Pynchon
The Winds are turning meantimes ever colder, the leaves beginning to curl in and darken and fall. One day, having brought her to the Shore of some vast body of water that vanishes at the Horizon, they tell her she must get into a Bark Canoe,— and for the first time she is afraid, imagining them all rowing out together into this Yellow Splendor, these painted Indigo and Salmon Cloud-Formations, toward some miraculous Land at the other side of what, even with a mild chop, would soon have batter'd the frail craft to pieces. Instead, keeping the Shore ever in view, they continue North, till they enter a great River, fill'd with a Traffick of Canoes and Battoes and Barges, with settlements upon the Banks, smoke ascending ev'rywhere, white faces upon the Shore, and a Town, and another.... For many weeks now, she has neglected to Pray. She has eaten animals she didn't know existed, small, poor things too trusting to avoid the Snares set for them. Her Captors have told her when and where she may perform ev'ry single action of her life. It is Schooling, tho' she will not discover this till later.
When they arrive at last in Quebec, the Winter is well upon them. Tho' not as grand as its counterpart in Rome, yet in Quebec, the Jesuit College is Palace enough. Travelers have describ'd it as ascending three stories, with a Garret above, enclosing a broad central courtyard,— tho' were she ask'd to confirm even this, she could swear to nothing. (Perhaps there are more Levels. Perhaps there is a courtyard-within-a-courtyard, or beneath it. Perhaps a Crypto-Porticus, or several, leading to other buildings in parts of the City quite remov'd.) Her arrival here passes too quickly for her to take much of it in, so deep in the Night, in the snow, with the black nidor of the Torches for her first Incense, their Light sending shadows lunging from corners and crevices and window-reveals, the distant choiring like tuned shouts, the open looks of the men—
At dawn, separate, she is taken into the Refectory, where at each of the hundred places upon the bare tables is set an identical glaz'd earthen bowl of Raspberries, perfectly ripe, tho' outside be all the Dead of Winter, and upon each Table a Jug of cream fresh from the Shed. An old Indian serving-man, who moves as if wounded long ago, showing not a trace of curiosity, brings in a kettle of porridge,— she is not to have Raspberries (she thanks the Lord, for who knows what unholy Power might account for this unseasonable presence, in its unnatural Redness?).
The Courtyard produces a constant echoing Whisper that can be heard ev'rywhere in the great Residence, ev'ry skin seems immediate to ev'ry other,— into the morning, Scribes carry ink-pots and quills and quill-sharpeners, in and out of Cells of many sizes, whose austerities are ever compromis'd by concessions to the Rococo,— boys in pointed hoods go mutely up and down with buckets of water and kindling,— cooks already have begun to quarrel over details of the noon meal,— in his rooftop Bureau, an Astronomer finishes his Night's reductions, writes down his last entries, and seeks his Mat,— Vigil-keepers meanwhile arise, and limp down to the ingenious College Coffee Machine, whose self-igniting Roaster has, hours earlier, come on by means of a French Clockwork Device which, the beans having been roasted for the desir'd time, then controls their Transfer to a certain Engine, where they are mill'd to a coarse Powder, discharg'd into an infusing chamber, combin'd with water heated exactly,— Ecce Coffea!
She is taken, barefoot, still in Indian Dress, into a room fill'd with books. Pere de la Tube, a Jesuit in a violet cassock, speaks to her with a thick French accent, and will not look at her face. Nearby, in smoothly kept Silence, sits a colleague whose relentless Smile and brightness of eye only the Mad may know. "Our Guest," the Frenchman tells her, "is a world-known philosopher of Spain, having ever taken interest, in heretick Women who turn to Holy Mother the Church. His observations upon your own case will of course be most welcome."
So silently that she jumps, another man now, slighter and younger, in black silk Jacket and Trousers, has appear'd in the room. When she makes out his face, she cannot reclaim her stare. As a small current of deference flows between the two Jesuits, the Spanish Visitor takes from the messenger a tightly folded sheet of paper, seal'd with Wax and Chops in two of the colors of Blood. The messenger withdraws. She watches for as long as she can.
"You have never before seen a Chinese, child?"
She has assisted at more than one Birth, has endur'd a hard-drinking and quarrelsome troop of Men-Folk,— who is this unfamily'd man in a Frock to call her child? She replies, "No, Sir," in her smallest voice.
"You must call me 'Father.' There'll be more than one Chinese here. You must learn to keep your eyes down."
The College in Quebec is head-quarters for all operations in North America. Kite-wires and Balloon-cables rise into clouds, recede into serial distances, as, somewhere invisible, the Jesuit Telegraphy goes
ahead, unabated. Seal'd Carriages rumble in and out of the Portes-Cochères, Horsemen come and go at all hours. Whenever the Northern Aurora may appear in the Sky, rooftops in an instant are a-swarm with figures in black,— certain of the Crew seeming to glide like Swifts ever in motion, others remaining still as statuary, the Celestial Flickering striking High-lights 'pon the pale damp faces. Rumors suggest that the Priests are using the Boreal Phenomenon to send Messages over the top of the World, to receiving-stations in the opposite Hemisphere.
"Twenty-six letters, nine digits, blank space for zero," a Sergeant's voice instructing a platoon of Novices, "— that suggest anything to any of you Hammer-heads?"
"An Array seven-by-five of, of—
"Think, Nit-Wits, think."
"Lights!"
"Behold, ye Milling of Sheep.—
" He swings a Lever. Above, against a gray Deck of snow-clouds, a gigantic Lattice-work of bright and very yellow Lights appears, five across by seven down. Briskly stepping along ranks and files of smaller Handles of Ebony, he spells out the Sequence I-D-I-O-T-S in the Sky above their gaping faces.
"Visible for hundreds of miles. Ev'ryone beneath, who can spell, now knows ev'rything there is to know about you.—
But it's not all Spectacle, all Romance of Elecktricity, no, there's insanely boring Drudgery a-plenty too, mes enfants, for you're all to be sailors upon dry land," explaining that, as the whole Apparatus must stand absolutely still in the Sky, before Weathers unpredictable, it requires an extensive Rigging, even more mysteriously complex than that of a Naval Ship...lines must ever be shifted, individual Winches adjust constantly the tension in stays and backstays and preventers, as the changing conditions aloft are signal'd by an electrickal telegraph to those below. A Coordinator in a single-breasted Soutane, or Cassock, of black Bruges Velvet and lin'd with Wolverine Fur, stands upon a small podium, before the set of Ebony Handles and Indicators trimm'd in Brass, whilst Chinese attend to the Rigging, and specially train'd Indian Converts tend a Peat-fire so as to raise precisely the Temperature of a great green Prism of Brazilian Tour-
maline, a-snarl as Medusa with plaited Copper Cabling running from it in all directions, bearing the Pyro-Elecktrical Fluid by which ev'rything here is animated. More intense than the peat-smoke, the smell of Ozone prevails here, the Musk of an unfamiliar Beast, unsettling even to those who breathe it ev'ry day.
In that harsh sexual smell, in the ice-edg'd morning, she is led past them, northern winds beneath her deerskin Shift, itching to risk raising her eyes, just once, to see who'll be watching. ("Do you think she understands?" The Visitor asks in rapid French. The other shrugs. ''She will understand what she needs to. If she seeks more..." The two exchange a look whose pitiless Weight she feels clearly enough.) Men strain at cables that pitch steeply into the sky, the enormous Rooftops anxiously a-scurry, as before some Invisible Approach. Chinese seem to flit ev'ry-where. Voices, usually kept low, are now and then rais'd. He has her arm. The other priest is behind them. She could not break free,— could she?— reaching with her arms, run to the roof's edge and into the Air, up-borne by Friendly Presences, as by Brilliance of Will, away across the Roof-slates and Fortifications, wheeling, beyond the range of all Weapons, beyond the need for any Obedience,...the Sun coming through, the River shining below, the great Warriors' River, keeping her course ever south-westward. Nor might any left behind on the ground see her again,— would they?— passing above in the Sky, the sleeves of her garment now catching light like wings.. .her mind no more than that of a Kite, the Wind blowing through...
"Careful, her head."
She is upon her back, rain is falling lightly, a Chinese is squatting beside her, holding her forearm and talking to another Chinese, who is making notes in a small, ingeniously water-proof'd Book. 'Tis he,— the same man she saw in the Jesuit's Chamber.
He smiles. Or, 'tis something in his face she sees, and fancies a Smile.
"God protect us," P. de la Tube is saying, "from all these damnable fainting Novices, Day after Day, it never ends."
The Guest's ears seem to move. "And yet, how many of us, posted upon Missions more solitary, might find the Event intriguing, and your Situation here a Paradise of charming Catalepsies,— and wonder,”
his Manner bordering upon the strain'd, "whatever you had to complain of."
"Ah of course this isn't like the Field, is it, Father, where occasions of Sin are so seldom met with,— no, here are rather Opportunities without number,— none of which may, of course, be acted upon."
"Wouldn't that depend," baring his teeth in a smile, "upon whether she is to be a Bride of Christ, or stand in some other Connexion?"
"As...?" he hesitates, as if for permission.
"His Widow. A novice in Las Viudas de Cristo." Here the Spaniard kisses the Crucifix of his Rosary, and pretends to pray a moment for the success of the Sisterhood. "Have your Indians collected you enough of these White Roses, that you might spare one? Of course, if you have a particular interest in this one,—
"No, who, I? not at all, in fact,— " fingering the Buttons down the front of his Costume like beads of a Rosary.
"— I would settle for another,—
"But we wouldn't hear of it, Father,— Las Viudas must have her, no question. I shall do my best to speed the request up through Hierarchy."
"How very generous. I go to mention you in my next report."
The other inclines his head. She understands that she is being bar-gain'd for, having remain'd all the while upon her knees, disobediently gazing up at the men, waiting as long as possible to see which may be first to notice...
S. Blondelle is a Gypsy, a child of the Sun, whom men keep mistaking for the very Type of the British Doxy, blowsy and cheeky as any who's ever delighted us in Story, or upon the Stage. For a while indeed she worked as a Covent Garden Sprite, finding herself in the company of ev'ry sort of man imaginable and not so, from quivering Neophyte to deprav'd old Coot,— it did not take her long to accumulate a great Spoil-Heap of Mistrust for the Breeched Sex.
Soldiers like Ramrods, and Sailors like Spars, Mechanicks and Nabobs, and Gents behind Bars,
Girls, there's no sort of Fellow I've ever pass'd by,—
Not even those Coolies, out there in Shang-hai—
Tis...
[Chorus]
Men have the Sterling, and sixpences too,
So be where there's men, and 'tis meal-time for you,
Mind the Equipment as long as you can,
And don't sell yourself cheap, to some cheese-paring Man.
Ever since Adam stepp'd out of Eve's Sight, And didn't get back till the following Night, Men have been lying to Women they bed, Care-free as felons, yet easy to shed, singing,— [Chorus]
She is accompanied by a couple of Sisters, in close, yet, for those days, advanc'd, Harmonies. Beneath what seems but a tap-room Jig lies the same sequence of chords to be found in many a popular Protestant hymn. (Tho' I was not present in the usual sense, nevertheless, I am a clergyman,— be confident, 'twas an utterly original moment musicale, as they say in France.)
"Then," as Blondelle relates it, "just as I was about to give up Men, I discover'd Jesuits." It was like finding Christ at last,— a Bolt of Desire, to find herself, at last, beyond Desire. "Yet not like renouncing anything,— no, I lov'd the Streets, love 'em ever,— the Excitement, the Tale-a-Minute Scurrying, even the Bullies, and despite the Pox,— Girls stricken overnight,— Beauty,— gone.... Sure, Life's a gamble, just a day-and-night Pass Bank, isn't it? Why not look your best whilst the Dice yet tumble, 's how I see it, don't you?" She attends to her Hair. "Well. Would you like me to fetch a Mirror, 's what I mean."
"Oh..." For the first time since she was taken, her Voice stirs. She tries to smile but finds herself short of breath. "What must I look like...," whispering.
"Not quite ready for the Ridotto, are you," says Sister Grincheuse, with some Solemnity.
"These are from Berry-Vines?" the quiet and dewy Sister Crosier examining the scratches upon her body, closely.
She nods. "No marks from the Indians, if that's what you mean— They were uncommonly gentle with me,— although...”
S. Grincheuse's eyes sparkle like Jasper. "Must we guess, then?"
"I star'd often at the many ways they had inscrib'd their own Skins, some of the Pictures being most beautiful, others arousing in me strange flashes of fear, mix'd with...it perplexes me to say...ow!"
"Speak up."
"...with feelings of Desire—" She sets her Chin provocatively and gazes at them.
"Oh dear, just from a couple of Tattoos? Well, well, girls, whatever are we to do?"
" 'Twill be the Cilice for you, I'm afraid, my dear, and there's the first Lesson already,— Never discuss Desire. Get that one sorted out, you'll be a good Catholic in no time."
"But you bade me—
"Shh. Here it is. Here is what disobedient Novices must wear." The
Las Viudas Cilice is a device suggested by Jesuit practice, worn secretly,
impossible, once secur'd, to remove, producing what some call Discom
fort,— enough to keep thoughts from straying far from God. "If God were
younger, more presentable," murmurs Crosier, "we'd be thinking about
Him all the time, and we shouldn't need this,— " her Gaze inclining to
the Hothouse Rose, deep red, nearly black, whose supple, long Stem is
expertly twisted into a Breech-clout, to pass between the Labia as well
as 'round the Waist, with the Blossom, preferably one just about to open,
resting behind, in that charming Cusp of moistness and heat, where
odors of the Body and the Rose may mingle with a few drops of Blood
from the tiny green Thorns, and Flashes of Pain whose true painfulness
must be left for the Penitent to assess
Of course, this is all for the pur
pose of keeping her Attention unwaveringly upon Christ. "Considering
what Christ had to go through," Jesuits are all too happy to point out, "it
isn't really much to complain about."