Mason & Dixon
Authors: Thomas Pynchon
Praise for Mason & Dixon
"Awash with light and charm, rich with suggestion and idea, stuffed with the minutiae of another time and world. Mason & Dixon is less a book to read through than to read in, to savor paragraph by paragraph."
—Paul Skenazy, San Francisco Chronicle
"As a fellow-novelist I could only envy it and the culture that permits the cre
ation and success of such intricate masterpieces. This almost feels like the
last great fiction of our dying era. Though I'm sure it won't be, I must admire
its sense of the bright farewell, the clear passing overseas of the torch that
Peacock, Dickens, Lawrence, and Conrad bore. You'll not find a better, this
next time round."
—John Fowles, The Spectator
"A dazzling work of imaginative re-creation, a marvel-filled historical novel . . . Exceptionally funny."
—Michael Dirda, The Washington Post Book World
"Mason & Dixon will make you want to curse American history, then turn around and bless it, because nowhere else but America could you find a zany literary genius like Thomas Pynchon." —Malcolm Jones Jr., Newsweek
"Splendid . . . Mason & Dixon—like Huckleberry Finn, like Ulysses—is one of the great novels about male friendship in anybody's literature."
—John Leonard, The Nation
"Pynchon always has been wildly inventive, and gorgeously funny when he surpasses himself: the marvels of this book are extravagant and unexpected."
—Harold Bloom, Bostonia
"This is the old Pynchon, the true Pynchon, the best Pynchon of all. Mason
& Dixon is a groundbreaking book, a book of heart and fire and genius, and
there is nothing quite like it in our literature, except maybe V., and Gravity's
Rainbow."
—T. Coraghessan Boyle, The New York Times Book Review
Mason & Dixon
Thomas Pynchon
An Owl Book
Henry Holt and Company
New York For Melanie, and for Jackson Henry Holt and Company, Inc.
Publishers since lS66
175 West i8th Street
New York, New York won
Henry Holt ® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, Inc.
Copyright © 1997 by Thomas Pynchon
All rights reserved.
Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside Ltd., 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario I/jR 4X8.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pynchon, Thomas. Mason & Dixon / Thomas Pynchon.
p.
cm.
ISBN 0-8050-5837-0 I. Mason, Charles, 1728-1786—Fiction.
2. United States—History—
Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775—Fiction.
3. Surveying—United States—History—i8th century—Fiction.
4. British—United States—
History—i8th century—Fiction.
5. Frontier and pioneer life—
Pennsylvania—Fiction.
6. Frontier and pioneer life—Maryland—
Fiction.
7. Surveyors—United States—Fiction.
8. Dixon,
Jeremiah—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3s66.Y55M.37
1997
97-6467
t
CIP
Henry Holt books are available for special promotions and premiums. For details contact: Director, Special Markets.
First published in hardcover in 1997 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc.
First Owl Books Edition 1998 Designed by Betty Lew
Printed in the United States of America All first editions are printed on acid-free paper.<»
3579
IO
8642
The author wishes to thank the John D. and Catharine T. MacArthur Foundation.
Mason & Dixon
One
1
Snow-Balls have flown their Arcs, starr'd the Sides of Outbuildings, as of Cousins, carried Hats away into the brisk Wind off Delaware,— the Sleds are brought in and their Runners carefully dried and greased, shoes deposited in the back Hall, a stocking'd-foot Descent made upon the great Kitchen, in a purposeful Dither since Morning, punctuated by the ringing Lids of various Boilers and Stewing-Pots, fragrant with Pie-Spices, peel'd Fruits, Suet, heated Sugar,— the Children, having all upon the Fly, among rhythmic slaps of Batter and Spoon, coax'd and stolen what they might, proceed, as upon each afternoon all this snowy Advent, to a comfortable Room at the rear of the House, years since given over to their carefree Assaults. Here have come to rest a long scarr'd sawbuck table, with two mismatch'd side-benches, from the Lancaster County branch of the family,— some Second-Street Chippendale, including an interpretation of the fam'd Chinese Sofa, with a high canopy of yards of purple Stuff that might be drawn all 'round to make a snug, dim tent,— a few odd Chairs sent from England before the War,— mostly Pine and Cherry about, nor much Mahogany, excepting a sinister and wonderful Card Table which exhibits the cheaper sinusoidal Grain known in the Trade as Wand'ring Heart, causing an illusion of Depth into which for years children have gaz'd as into the illustrated Pages of Books...along with so many hinges, sliding Mortises, hidden catches, and secret compartments that neither the Twins nor their Sister can say they have been to the end of it. Upon the Wall, banish'd to this Den of Parlor Apes for its Remembrance of a Time better forgotten, reflecting most of the Room,— the Carpet and Drapes a little fray'd, Whiskers the Cat stalking beneath the furniture, looking out with eyes finely reflexive to anything suggesting Food,— hangs a Mirror in an inscrib'd Frame, commemorating the "Mischianza," that memorable farewell Ball stag'd in '77 by the British who'd been Occupying the City, just before their Withdrawal from Philadelphia.
This Christmastide of 1786, with the War settl'd and the Nation bickering itself into Fragments, wounds bodily and ghostly, great and small, go aching on, not ev'ry one commemorated,— nor, too often, even recounted. Snow lies upon all Philadelphia, from River to River, whose further shores have so vanish'd behind curtains of ice-fog that the City today might be an Isle upon an Ocean. Ponds and Creeks are frozen over, and the Trees a-glare to the last slightest Twig,— Nerve-Lines of concentrated Light. Hammers and Saws have fallen still, bricks lie in snow-cover'd Heaps, City-Sparrows, in speckl'd Outbursts, hop in and out of what Shelter there may be,— the nightward Sky, Clouds blown to Chalk-smears, stretches above the Northern Liberties, Spring Garden and Ger-mantown, its early moon pale as the Snow-Drifts,— smoke ascends from Chimney-Pots, Sledging-Parties adjourn indoors, Taverns bustle,— freshly infus'd Coffee flows ev'ryplace, borne about thro' Rooms front and back, whilst Madeira, which has ever fuel'd Association in these Parts, is deploy'd nowadays like an ancient Elixir upon the seething Pot of Politics,— for the Times are as impossible to calculate, this Advent, as the Distance to a Star.
It has become an afternoon habit for the Twins and their Sister, and what Friends old and young may find their way here, to gather for another Tale from their far-travel'd Uncle, the Revd Wicks Cherrycoke, who arriv'd here back in October for the funeral of a Friend of years ago,— too late for the Burial, as it prov'd,— and has linger'd as a Guest in the Home of his sister Elizabeth, the Wife, for many years, of Mr. J. Wade LeSpark, a respected Merchant, active in Town Affairs whilst in his home yet Sultan enough to convey to the Revd, tho' without ever so stipulating, that, for as long as he can keep the children amus'd, he may remain,— too much evidence of Juvenile Rampage at the wrong moment, however, and Boppo! 'twill be Out the Door with him, where waits the Winter's Block and Blade.
Thus, they have heard the Escape from Hottentot-Land, the Accursed Ruby of Mogok, the Ship-wrecks in Indies East and West,— an Herodotic Web of Adventures and Curiosities selected, the Revd implies, for their moral usefulness, whilst avoiding others not as suitable in the Hearing of Youth. The Youth, as usual, not being consulted in this.
Tenebras has seated herself and taken up her Needlework, a piece whose size and difficulty are already subjects of Discussion in the House, the Embroidress herself keeping silence,— upon this Topick, at least. Announc'd by Nasal Telegraph, in come the Twins, bearing the old Pewter Coffee-Machine venting its Puffs of Vapor, and a large Basket dedicated to Saccharomanic Appetites, piled to the Brim with fresh-fried Dough-Nuts roll'd in Sugar, glaz'd Chestnuts, Buns, Fritters, Crullers, Tarts. "What is this? Why, Lads, you read my mind."
"The Coffee's for you, Nunk,— " "— last Time, you were talking in your sleep," the Pair explain, placing the Sweets nearer themselves, all in this Room being left to seize and pour as they may. As none could agree which had been born first, the Twins were nam'd Pitt and Pliny, so that each might be term'd "the Elder" or "the Younger," as might day-today please one, or annoy his Brother.
"Why haven't we heard a Tale about America?" Pitt licking Gobbets of Philadelphia Pudding from his best Jabot.
"With Indians in it, and Frenchmen," adds Pliny, whose least gesture sends Cookie-crumbs everywhere.
"French Women, come to that," mutters Pitt.
"It's not easy being pious for both of us, you know," Pliny advises.
"It's twenty years," recalls the Revd, "since we all topped the Allegheny Ridge together, and stood looking out at the Ohio Country,— so fair, a Revelation, meadow'd to the Horizon— Mason and Dixon, and all the McCleans, Darby and Cope, no, Darby wouldn't've been there in 'sixty-six,— howbeit, old Mr. Barnes and young Tom Hynes, the rascal.. .don't know where they all went,— some fought in the war, some chose peace come what might, some profited, some lost everything. Some are gone to Kentucky, and some,— as now poor Mason,— to Dust.
' 'Twas not too many years before the War,— what we were doing out in that Country together was brave, scientifick beyond my understanding, and ultimately meaningless,— we were putting a line straight through the heart of the Wilderness, eight yards wide and due west, in order to separate two Proprietorships, granted when the World was yet feudal and but eight years later to be nullified by the War for Independence."
And now Mason's gone, and the Revd Cherrycoke, who came to town only to pay his Respects, has linger'd, thro' the first descent of cold, the first drawings-in to the Hearth-Side, the first Harvest-Season meals appearing upon the next-best Dishes. He had intended to be gone weeks ago, but finds he cannot detach. Each day among his Devoirs is a visit, however brief, to Mason's grave. The Verger has taken to nodding at him. In the middle of the night recently he awoke convinc'd that 'twas he who had been haunting Mason,— that like a shade with a grievance, he expected Mason, but newly arriv'd at Death, to help him with something.
"After years wasted," the Revd commences, "at perfecting a parsoni-cal Disguise,— grown old in the service of an Impersonation that never took more than a Handful of actor's tricks,— past remembering those Yearnings for Danger, past all that ought to have been, but never had a Hope of becoming, have I beach'd upon these Republican Shores,— stoven, dismasted, imbecile with age,— an untrustworthy Remembrancer for whom the few events yet rattling within a broken memory must provide the only comfort now remaining to him,—
"Uncle," Tenebrse pretends to gasp, "— and but this Morning, you look'd so much younger,— why I'd no idea."
"Kindly Brae. That is from my Secret Relation, of course. Don't know that I'd phrase it quite like that in the present Company."
"Then...?" Tenebrae replying to her Uncle's Twinkling with the usual play of Eye-lashes.
"It begins with a Hanging."
"Excellent!" cry the Twins.
The Revd, producing a scarr'd old Note-book, cover'd in cheap Leather, begins to read. "Had I been the first churchman of modern times to be swung from Tyburn Tree,— had I been then taken for dead, whilst in fact but spending an Intermission among the eventless corridors of Syncope, due to the final Bowl of Ale,— had a riotous throng of medical students taken what they deem'd to be my Cadaver back beneath the somber groins of their College,— had I then been 'resurrected' into an entirely new Knowledge of the terms of being, in which Our Savior,— strange to say in that era of Wesley and Whitefield,— though present, would not have figur'd as pre-eminently as with most Sectarians,— howbeit,— I should closely resemble the nomadic Parson you behold today...."
