Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"The one thing we do know how to do, is Vistoes. Let's give 'em something they'll journey from other Provinces, down Rivers and Pikes in Streams ever-wid'ning, to gaze upon,— " as the Visto soon is lin'd with Inns and Shops, Stables, Games of Skill, Theatrickals, Pleasure-Gardens... a Promenade,— nay, Mall,— eighty Miles long. At twilight
you could mount to a Platform, and watch the lamps coming on, watch the Visto tapering, in perfect Projection, to its ever-unreachable Point. Pure Latitude and Longitude.
"I am a student of 'Blind Jack' Metcalf, if it please you," declares one of the Axmen, overhearing them.
"West Riding Lad! Blind Surveyor! he was famous in Staindrop even when I was a Lad."
"Applying the methods I learn'd whilst a member of his Crew, we could build a Modern Road here, straight up this Visto, eighty Miles long, well drain'd its entire length, self-compacting, impervious to all weather, immovable 'neath Laden Wheels be they broad or narrow,— true there's nothing much at the Middle Point, not today as we speak, but with the much improv'd Carriage from the other end, itself convenient to Philadelphia, New Castle, the entire heart of Chesapeake, why a Metropolis could blossom here among the Fens of Nanticoke that might rival any to the North."
"Sha!" warns the Chinaman. "Think about it!"
"Very well,— yet Right Lines, by minimizing Distance, are highly valu'd by some,— Commanding Officers, Merchants, Express-Riders? Must these all be Creatures of Sha?"
"Without Question. Officers kill men in large numbers. Merchants concentrate wealth by beggaring uncounted others. Express-riders distort and injure the very stuff of Time."
"Then why not consider Light itself as equally noxious," inquires Dixon, "for doth it not move ever straight ahead?"
"Ah!" a gleam as likely Madness as Merriment appearing in his Eye. "And if it moves in some other way?"
"Ev'ry Survey would have to be re-run," cries Dixon. "Eeh,— marvellous,— work for all the poor Dodmen till Doomsday!"
"Excuse me, Sir," Mason addresses the Geomancer. "Is this an article of common Faith among the Chinese, which I must remedy my ignorance of,— or but a Crotchet of your own I assume I may safely disregard? no wonder the Jesuits find you Folk inconvenient."
"What's that you're writing? Looks like Verse...?" "My Epitaph. Like to hear it?
7C2 'He wish'd but for a middling Life,
Forever in betwixt
The claims of Lust and Duty,
So intricately mix'd,—
To reach some happy Medium,
Fleet as a golden Beam,
Uncharted as St. Brendan's Isle,
Fugitive as a Dream.
Alas, 'twas not so much the Years
As Day by thieving Day,—
With Debts incurr'd, and Interest Due,
That Dreams were sold to pay,—
Until at last, but one remain'd,
Too modest to have Worth,
That yet he holds within his heart,
As he is held, in Earth.' "
That other Tract, across the Border,— perhaps nearly ev'rything, perhaps nearly nothing,— is denied him. "Is that why I sought so obsessedly Death's Insignia, its gestures and formula;, its quotidian gossip,— all those awful days out at Tyburn,— hours spent nearly immobile, watching stone-carvers labor upon tomb embellishments, Chip by Chip,— was it all but some way to show my worthiness to obtain a Permit to visit her, to cross that grimly patroll'd Line, that very essence of Division? She only wishes me back in the stink of mills, mutton-grease, Hell-Clamor, Lanthorns all night, the People in subjection, the foul'd wells of Painswick, Bisley, Stroud, styling it 'Home,'— Oh, is there no deliverance!"
She accosts him one night walking the Visto. "Seems sad, doesn't it," she chuckles. "Trust me, Mopery, there are regions of Sadness you have not seen. Nonetheless, you must come back to our Vale, 'round to your beginning,— well away from the sea and the sailors, away from the Nets of imaginary Lines. You must leave Mr. Dixon to his Fate, and attend your own."
"You don't care for him, do you?"
"If we are a Triangle, then must I figure as the Unknown side.... Dare you calculate me? Dead-reckon your course into the Wilderness that is now my home, as my Exile? Show, by Projection, Shapes beyond the meager Prism of my Grave? Do you have any idea of my Sentiments? I think not. Mr. Dixon would much prefer you forget me, he is of beaming and cheery temperament, a Boy who would ever be off to play. You were his playmate, now that is over, and you must go back inside the House of your Duty. When you come out again, he will no longer be there, and the Dark will be falling."
On their last visit to New-York, at the very end, waiting for the Halifax Packet, they dash all about the town, looking for any Face familiar from years before. Yet they are berated for their slowness at Corners. Carriages careen thro'
Puddles
the
size
of Ponds,
spattering them with
Mire unspeakable, so that they soon resemble Irregulars detach'd from a campaign in some moist Country. The Sons of Liberty have grown even less hospitable, and there is no sign of Philip Dimdown, nor Blackie, nor Captain Volcanoe. "Out of Town," they are told, when they are told anything. "Let's drink up and get out of here, there's no point." "We can find them. That's what we do, isn't it? We're Finders, after all." "The Continent is casting off, one by one, the Lines that fasten'd us to her."
Yet at last, seated among their Impedimenta, Quayage unreckon'd stretching north and south into Wood Lattice-Work, a deep great Thicket of Spars, poised upon the Sky, Hemp and City Smoak, two of a shed-ful of somberly cloak'd travelers waiting the tide, they are aware once more of a feeling part intra-cranial, part Skin-quiver, part fear,— familiar from Inns at Bridges, waiting-places at Ferries, all Lenses of Revenance or Haunting, where have ever converg'd to them Images of those they drank with, saw at the edges of Rooms from the corners of Eyes, shouted to up or down a Visto. This seems to be true now, of ev'ry Face in this Place. Mason turns, his observing Eye protruding in alarm. "Are we at the right Pier?" "I was just about to ask,—
- I didn't actually see any Signs, did you?"
They are approach'd by a Gentleman not quite familiar to them. A Slouch Hat obscures much of his Face. "Well met," he pronounces, yet nothing further.
''Are ye bound for Falmouth?" Mason inquires.
"For Pendennis Point, mean ye, and Carrick Roads?" His tone poises upon a Cusp 'twixt Mockery and Teasing, which recognition might modulate to one or the other,— yet neither can quite identify him. "That Falmouth?"
"There is another, Sir?" Dixon, maniatropick Detectors a-jangle, gets to his feet, as Mason Eye-Balls the Exits.
"There is a Falmouth invisible, as the center of a circle is invisible, yet with Compasses and Straight-Edge may be found," the Stranger replies. At that instant, the company is rous'd by a great Clamor of Bells and Stevedores, as the Packet, Rigging a-throb, prepares to sail. There will be perhaps two minutes to get aboard. "We must continue this Conversation, at Sea,"— and he has vanish'd in the Commotion. Each Day, on the Way over, Mason and Dixon will look for him, at Mess, at Cards, upon ev'ry Deck, yet without Issue.
Mason's last entry, for September nth, 1768, reads, "At 11h 30m A.M. went on board the Halifax Packet Boat for Falmouth. Thus ends my restless progress in America." Follow'd by a Point and long Dash, that thickens and thins again, Chinese-Style.
Dixon has been reading over his Shoulder. "What was mine, then...? Restful?”
As all History must converge to Opera in the Italian Style, however, their Tale as Commemorated might have to proceed a bit more hopefully. Suppose that Mason and Dixon and their Line cross Ohio after all, and continue West by the customary ten-minute increments,— each installment of the Story finding the Party advanc'd into yet another set of lives, another Difficulty to be resolv'd before it can move on again. Behind, in pursuit, his arrangements undone, pride wounded, comes Sir William Johnson, play'd as a Lunatick Irishman, riding with a cadre of close Indian Friends,— somehow, as if enacting a discarded draft of Zeno's Paradox, never quite successful in attacking even the rearmost of the Party's stragglers, who remain ever just out of range. Yet at any time, we are led to believe, the Pursuers may catch up, and compel the Surveyors to return behind the Warrior Path.
Longer Sights, easier Grades, wider Night Skies, as the landscape turns inside-out, with Groves upon the Prairie now the reverse of what Glades in the Forest were not so many chains ago. Far less ax-work being requir'd, soon the Axmen are down to Stig alone, who when ask'd to, becomes a one-man assault force on behalf of the Astronomers. The Musick, from some source invisible, is resolutely merry, no matter what it may be accompanying.
One late Autumn, instead of returning to the Coast, the Astronomers will just decide to winter in, however far west it is they've got to...and after that, the ties back in to Philadelphia and Chesapeake will come to mean that much less, as the Pair, detach'd at last, begin consciously to move west. The under-lying Condition of their Lives is quickly estab-lish'd as the Need to keep, as others a permanent address, a perfect Latitude,— no fix'd place, rather a fix'd Motion,— Westering. Whenever they do stop moving, like certain Stars in Chinese Astrology, they lose their Invisibility, and revert to the indignity of being observ'd and available again for earthly purposes.
Were they to be taken together, themselves light and dark Sides of a single Planet, with America the Sun, an Observation Point on high may be chosen, from which they may be seen to pass across a Face serene and benevolent at that Distance, tho' from the Distance of the Planet, often, Winter as Summer, harsh and inimical.
Into the Illinois, where they find renegade French living out a fantasy of the Bourbon Court, teaching the Indians Dress-making, Millinery, Wine-Growing, Haute Cuisine, orchestral Musick, Wig-Dressing, and such other Arts of answering Desire as may sustain this Folly. They believe Mason and Dixon to be Revolutionary Agents.
Descending great bluffs, they cross the Mississippi, the prehistoric Mounds above having guided them exactly here, by an Influence neither can characterize more than vaguely, but whose accuracy is confirm'd by their Star observations, as nicely as the Micrometer and Nonius will permit. They stay at villages of teepees where Mason as usual behaves offensively enough to require their immediate departure, at a quite inconvenient time, too, for Dixon and his Maiden of the day, who've both been looking forward to a few private moments. Instead, the Astronomers spend the rest of their Day running from the angry Villagers, and only by Fool's Luck do they escape. They subsist upon Roots and Fungi. They watch Lightning strike the Prairie again and again, for days, and fires rage like tentacles of a conscious Being, hungry and a-roar. They cower all night before the invisible Thunder of Bison herds, smelling the Animal Dust, keeping ready to make the desperate run for higher ground. They acquire a Sidekick, a French-Shawanese half-breed Renegado nam'd Vongolli, whose only loyalty is to Mason and Dixon, tho' like the Quaker in the Joak, they are not so sure of him. When they happen across an Adventurer from Mexico, and the ancient City he has discov-er'd beneath the Earth, where thousands of Mummies occupy the Streets in attitudes of living Business, embalm'd with Gold divided so finely it flows like Gum, it is Vongolli, with his knowledge of Herbal Formulas, who provides Mason and Dixon with the Velocity to avoid an otherwise certain Dissolution.
Far enough west, and they have outrun the slowly branching Seep of Atlantic settlement, and begun to encounter towns from elsewhere, coming their way, with entirely different Histories,— Cathedrals, Spanish Musick in the Streets, Chinese Acrobats and Russian Mysticks. Soon, the Line's own Vis Inertiae having been brought up to speed, they discover additionally that 'tis it, now transporting them. Right in the way of the Visto some evening at Supper-time will appear the Lights of some complete Village, down the middle of whose main street the Line will clearly run. Laws continuing upon one side,— Slaves, Tobacco, Tax Liabilities,— may cease to exist upon the other, obliging Sheriffs and posses to decide how serious they are about wanting to cross Main Street. "Thanks, Gentlemen! Slaves yesterday, free Men and Women today! You survey'd the Chains right off 'em, with your own!"
One week they encounter a strange tribal sect, bas'd upon the worship of some celestial Appearance none but the Congregation can see. Hungry to know more about the Beloved, ignoring the possibility of a negative result, recklessly do they prevail upon the 'Gazers to search scientifickally, with their Instruments, for this God, and having found its position, to determine its Motion, if any. It turns out to be the new Planet, which, a decade and a half later, will be known first as the Georgian, and then as Herschel, after its official Discoverer, and more lately as Uranus. The Lads, stunn'd, excited, realize they've found the first new Planet in all the untold centuries since gazing at the Stars began. Here at last is the Career-maker each has dreamt of, at differing moments and degrees of Faith. "All we need do is turn," cries Mason,— "turn, Eastward again, and continue to walk as we ever have done, to claim the Prize. For the first time, we may forget any Obligations to the current Sky,— for praise God (His ways how strange), we need never work again, 'tis t'ta to the Mug's Game and the Fool's Errand, 'tis a Royal Entrance at Life's Ridotto, 'tis a Copley Medal!"
"Eeh!" Dixon amiably waves his Hat. "Which half do thou fancy, obverse or reverse?”
"What?" Mason frowning in thought, "Hum. Well I rather imagin'd we'd...share the same side,— a Half-Circle each, sort of thing—"
Yet by now they can also both see the Western Mountains, ascending from the Horizon like a very close, hitherto unsuspected, second Moon,— the Circumferentor daily tracking the slow rise in vertical angle to the tops of these other-worldly Peaks. They are apt to meet men in skins, and Indians whose Tongue none of the Party can understand, and long strings of Pack-Horses loaded with Peltry, their Flanks wet, their eyes glancing 'round Blinders, inquiring... Survey Sights go on now for incredible Hundreds of Miles, so clear is the Air. Chainmen go chaining away into it, and sometimes never come back. They would be re-discover'd in episodes to come, were the episodes ever to be enacted, did Mason and Dixon choose not to turn, back to certain Fortune and global Acclaim, but rather to continue West, away from the law, into the savage Vacancy ever before them—