Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"The Copley Medal!" Dixon trying to get into the spirit of things.
"Attend me,— nothing would lie beyond our grasp. We would be the King's Own Astronomers, living in a Palace, servants to obey our desires! Weighty stipends, unlimited Credit! Wenches! Actresses! Observing Suits of gold lame! Any time, day or night, you wanted,— what do you people eat? Haggis! You want a Haggis after Midnight, all you need do is pull upon a bell-cord, and hi-ho!"
"Tha've certainly sold me," nods Dixon, gesturing with his broad hand at the Sun-set, which happens tonight to be wildly spectacular. "Yet all those — "
Mason nods back, impatiently. "They will have to live their lives without any Line amongst 'em, unseparated, daily doing Business together, World's Business and Heart's alike, repriev'd from the Tyranny of residing either North or South of it. Nothing worse than that, whatwhat?"
"How, then. Should we never again come West?"
"Should we ever be permitted to? Either by the King, or by the Americans? Think not, Lensfellow. If we do turn, and go back now, 'twill have to be a Continental D.I.O., forever."
"How Emerson will despise me—"
"As you've already taken money from the Royal Society,— isn't that, in his View, unredeemably corrupted?”
"Thankee, I'd nearly forgotten...?"
"Lethe passes to each and all,— yet vivid in Attention must the Degree of our Day's Sinfulness be ever kept."
"What ever did Sinners do, before there were those to tell them they were sinning?"
"However blissful their Ignorance, why they suffer'd."
"Bollocks. They enjoy'd themselves," Dixon mutters. "I was there. Another expell'd from Paradise, another Lad upon the North Road, seeking his daily Crumbs...."
Countryfolk they meet again are surpris'd to see them, sometimes shock'd, as at some return of the Dead. Mothers drive their small ones like Goslings away to safety. Bar-room habitues reprove them at length,— "You weren't ever suppos'd to be back this way,—
"Ev'ryone said you'd done with all that to-and-fro by 'sixty-eight, left it to the other side of th' Ohio, and 'twould be Westward from there and then on, for you two, or nothing."
"We took yese in among us,— allow'd ye to separate us, name us anew,— only upon the Understanding, that ye were to pass through each of our Lives here, but once."
"We believ'd you exactly that sort of Visitor, not...the other sort. We've enough of those here, the Lord knows, already,— Indian, White, African, aswarm well before the Twilight,— we hardly need more."
"How dare you come back now, among these Consequences you have loos'd like Vermin?"— and so on. Babies take one look at them and burst into tears inconsolable. Boys but recently initiated to the ways of the Rifle take playful shots at them. A recently wed couple assault them, screaming, "Yes you came the proper pair of bloody little Cupids, didn't you, then just went polka-dancing away, leaving us to sort out his mother, the recruiting Sergeant, the Sheriff, the other Girl,—
"— whilst ev'ry low-life you gentlemen caus'd to be suck'd into town in your Wake is ogling the Queen of Sheba, here, who never could keep her eyes to herself, and say what you will, Wife, my dear Mother has ever shewn the born grace and sense of the true lady.”
"D'you hear that then, you miserable cow? once again as I've ever been telling all you Scum, none of you's good enough for my Boy Adol-phus, 'specially not you, fifteen stone of unredeem'd Slut, my gracious just look at you,—
"Bitch!" the wife two-handedly swinging at her mother-in-law's Head a great Skillet, which none of the men present are hasty in rushing to deflect,— the older woman dodges the blow, and from somewhere produces a Dirk. In a moment, someone will have to load and prime a Pistol. All this having resulted from the award-winning "Love Laughs at a Line" episode, which seem'd but light-hearted Frolick that first time through.
In the next Village east, the Creature they thought they had so rationally and with up-to-date methods prov'd to be but a Natural phenomenon has re-emerged, and holds in its sinister emprise the lives of that half of the Populace living upon one side of the Line.. .yet for some reason, it is reluctant to cross and continue its depredations upon the other. The Line is believ'd to present some Barrier, invisible but powerful enough to hold back the Being, to preserve those across it from the Fate of their former Neighbors. Brave townsfolk slip out after dark, dig up and move the Boundary-Stones, as far as they dare, some one way, some another. The Line thro' here soon loses all pretense to Orthogony, becoming a Record in Oolite of Fear,— whose, and how much,— and of how a Village broke in two.
In some Towns they are oblig'd to turn back Westward, often waiting until Dark to creep cautiously eastward again, for the Population will hear of them in no other way but Westering. When it seems there's a Chance that someone may listen, Mason and Dixon both try to explain about the new Planet,— but very few care. It breaks slowly upon the Astronomers, that with no time available for gazing at anything, this people's Indifference to the Night, and the Stars, must work no less decisively than their devotion to the Day, and the Earth for whose sake something far short of the Sky must ever claim them, a stove, a child, a hen-house predator, a deer upwind, the price of Corn, a thrown shoe, an early Freeze.
At last the Post Mark'd West appears. A Joint Delegation from the American and Royal Societies, alerted by Jesuit Telegraph, is there to
greet them. A new and iridescent generation of Philadelphia Beauties in full Susurrus and Chirp line both sides of the Visto. A Consort of Crumhornes is on hand, playing Airs and Marches. 'Tis the Ineluctable Moment of Convergence. Will somebody repent, ere they arrive?
When they reach the Post Mark'd West, one swerves a bit North and the other South of it, and on they go, together, up the East Line, to the shore of Delaware, into a Boat and across, dropping by, that day, to visit the McCleans at Swedesboro.
"Heard some Tales, Gents,— what'll yese do now?"
"Devise a way," Dixon replies, "to inscribe a Visto upon the Allan-tick Sea."
"Archie, Lad, Look ye here," Mason producing a Sheaf of Papers, flapping thro' them,— "A thoughtful enough Arrangement of Anchors and Buoys, Lenses and Lanthorns, forming a perfect Line across the Ocean, all the way from the Delaware Bay to the Spanish Extre-madura,"— with the Solution to the Question of the Longitude thrown in as a sort of Bonus,— as, exactly at ev'ry Degree, might the Sea-Line, as upon a Fiduciary Scale for Navigators, be prominently mark'd, by a taller Beacon, or a differently color'd Lamp. In time, most Ships preferring to sail within sight of these Beacons, the Line shall have widen'd to a Sea-Road of a thousand Leagues, as up and down its Longitude blossom Wharves, Chandleries, Inns, Tobacco-shops, Greengrocers' Stalls, Printers of News, Dens of Vice, Chapels for Repentance, Shops full of Souvenirs and Sweets,— all a Sailor could wish,— indeed, many such will decide to settle here, "Along the Beacons," for good, as a way of coming to rest whilst remaining out at Sea. A good, clean, salt-scour'd old age. Too soon, word will reach the Land-Speculation Industry, and its Bureaus seek Purchase, like some horrible Seaweed, the length of the Beacon Line. Some are estopp'd legally, some are fended directly into the Sea, yet Time being ever upon their Side, they persist, and one Day, in sinister yet pleasing Coral-dy'd cubickal Efflorescence, appears "St. Brendan's Isle," a combination Pleasure-Grounds and Pensioners' Home, with ev'rything an Itinerant come to Rest might ask, Taverns, Music-Hails, Gaming-Rooms, and a Population ever changing of Practitioners of Comfort, to Soul as to Body, uncritickal youngsters from far-off lands where death might almost abide, so ubiquitous is it there, so easily do they tolerate it here.
Tis here Mason and Dixon will retire, being after all Plank-Holders of the very Scheme, having written a number of foresighted Stipulations into their Contract with the Line's Proprietor, the transnoctially charter'd "Atlantick Company." Betwixt themselves, neither feels British enough anymore, nor quite American, for either Side of the Ocean. They are content to reside like Ferrymen or Bridge-keepers, ever in a Ubiquity of Flow, before a ceaseless Spectacle of Transition.
Perhaps all was as simple as that,— that Dixon wish'd to remain, and Mason did not,— could not. So Dixon return'd as well, and on 15 December 1768, at a meeting of the Royal Society Council, according to the Minute-Book, there they are, together in the Room. Both have chosen to wear gray and black. "Messrs Mason and Dixon attending with proposals relative to the aforesaid intended observations, were called in; And Mr Dixon acquainted the Council, that he was willing to go to the North Cape or Cherry Island; Mr Mason rather declined going; but added, that if he was wanted, he should be ready to go."
Was their Appearance all pro forma, did Dixon know, did they have it all work'd out beforehand, or was it sprung upon him, and thus less forgivable than the accustom'd Masonickal behavior? The meaner of spirit might translate it into, "Of course I'll go, but not with Dixon,"— a clear Insult, Dixon was often advis'd,— Would he not care to respond? "Ah've grown so us'd to it," Dixon assur'd his Comforters, "that often Ah neglect to take offense...?"
Privately, his Sentiments are of a more hopeful turn. He knows enough of Mason to recognize by now most of the shapes his Pursuit of the Gentlemanly takes on, as well as the true extent of his progress beyond the socially stumbling Philosopher-Fool he began as. That is, 'tis possible that Mason, honestly believing Dixon ready for, as deserving of, his own command, is willing to risk looking ungracious, if it will advance that end. And so this "rather-decline-yet-if-I-am-wanted" Formula is but more of his inept Kindness.
They leave together. Out into another Christmastide, each for his own reason seeking the brightest Lights. Some horrible Boswell pursues them, asking questions. "Known of course as the Reluctant Lensmen of the Cape Expedition to observe the first Transit of Venus in 'sixty-one, and despite the generally excellent quality of your Work, neither of you has been voted to membership in the Royal Society. Mr. Mason, we've heard you're the one here who's unhappy with that, whilst Mr. Dixon takes the more philosophickal View."
"Only the long view, Lad."
How could the elder Charles have forgiven Mason for leaving his children with his Sister, dumping them really, going off to the Indies with another man, another Star-Gazer, coming home only to turn about and sail off to America, with the same man? Dixon sees the pattern, the expectation, the coming Transit of Venus. Mason sees it, too. "If we went off a third time together,... he hates me enough already.... I study the Stars against my Father's Wish,— but do I remain among 'em, only at the Price of my Sons? That is what I face,— some Choice!" So he declines the North Cape, and another posting together, symmetrically as ever, to that end of the world lying opposite their first end of the World. "Someone must break this damn'd Symmetry," Mason mutters.
For years, as he found his way further into the wall'd city of Melancholy, he dream'd,— tho' presently no longer sure if he had been asleep, or awake,— of the North Cape he would never see,— an unexpectedly populous land, where the native people were enslav'd by a small but grimly effective European team, quarter'd and mostly restricted to an area within easy reach of their boats, upon which indeed many of them preferr'd to sleep. The only industry there, was mining the Guano of the sea-birds and shipping it to lower latitudes, to be process'd into Nitre, for Gunpowder, which was in great demand, as it seem'd that far Below, a general European war had broken out, for dynastic, racial, and religious reasons Mason, and Dixon, who was also in the Dreams, realiz'd they were ignorant of, having been out of touch with any kind of periodical news for eight or nine years now. They arriv'd at the North Cape to find the mines working day and night shifts, and the mood turning unpleas- ant as white overseers demanded more and more from workers who were not making enough for it to matter what the warring nations Below did to each other, nor on what Schedule.
The Guano deposits and hence the mining were upon rocks off the Coast, often quite far out to Sea, where the Light was crepuscular and clear. The Guano was carried out to the Ships in Scows of soak'd, black, failing Timbers. Loading these vessels directly from the Rocks was perilous work. Weather often swept in, carrying away ships and Souls. The Natives, who were dark-skinn'd and spoke none but their own tongue, deserted when they could and many times contriv'd their own Deaths when all else had fail'd to deliver them...
At Maskelyne's Behest, Mason agrees to observe the Transit from South Ulster, where he obtains the ingress of Venus upon the Disk of the Sun, but not her departure. "The mists rise up out of the Bog. There she is, full, spherickal.. .the last time I shall see her as a Material Being.. .when next appearing, she will have resum'd her Deity." Maskelyne will edit this out, which is why Mason leaves it in his Field Report.
Shall Ireland be his last journey out, his last defiance of Sapperton,— which is to say, Rebekah? There's no place for him in London. The city has never found his Heart, and 'tis his Heart that keeps a residue of dislike for the place ever guarded. Likewise must he allow himself to let go of Dixon, soon now— He sees nothing but Penance ahead, and Renunciations proceeding like sheep straggling back, gathering to shelter. He sits alone in brand-new Rooms of which he may be the very first Occupant, in the smell of Plaster and Paint and Glue, the Paper upon the Walls an assault of Color,— Indigo, Cochineal Red, Spanish Orange, the rarely-observ'd Magenta and Green...the Day outside unable to emerge from Mourning. Rebekah, whom he expects to visit, does not appear. He waits, trying to see his way ahead, suddenly sixteen again. He tries to think of how, short of suicide, he may put himself in her way. He is furious about ev'rything, he screams at length about transient setbacks however slight. "Misses his Family," the Servants tell it. "No sleep." The House is large, inexpensively Palladian, with beds in ev'ry room, not only the Parlor and the Drawing Room, but the Kitchen and the Music Conservatory as well. Shadows are ev'rywhere unpredictable. Mason tries each room in turn. Other Guests are out upon the same Pilgrimage,— they meet in the Halls and mutter Civilities. In the Musick-Room, he wakes during the Night and mistakes the Clavier for a Coffin, with somebody in it, withal...who may or may not be another Sleeper. Out in the Bogs, Fairy Lights appear. He hears a Note from the Cas'd Instrument, then another. He much prefers the Kitchen, or the Observatory out back. There he is hypnagogickally instructed all night long in the arts of silent food Preparation, the "Sandwich" having found here a particular Admiration, for the virtual Boundlessness of its Assembly.