The Sot-Weed Factor (21 page)

Alas! The Queene, it grew cleare, was deprav'd as was her consort. Over & over againe, once having learnt the virtue of the small booke, she set the actors therein to moving, each time laughing alowd at what she sawe. . .

[More food is serv'd, and a sort of Indian liquor, both of w
^ch
Smith takes unto himself in quantity. The Author declines, for the same reasons as before. The Queene appoints herself to wait on Smith personally, laving his hands and fetching bunches of wild-turkey feathers wherewith to dry them.]

The while this second feasting was in progresse, I contriv'd to screwe up sufficient courage to observe Powhatan, hoping to reade in his face prognostication of what was to followe. What I sawe did not refresh my spirits. . . The Emperour never took his gaze from the Queene, who in turn, never remov'd hers from my C
^apt
,
with everie indecent promise in her eyes. She was on everie side of him at once, fetching this & carrying that, all her movements exaggerated, and none befitting any save a Drury Lane vestall. My C
^apt
,
whether through his characteristick ignorance, or, what is more likelie, in pursuit of some twisted designe of his owne, reply'd to her coquetries in kind. None of this escap'd the Emperour, who, it seem'd to me, was scarce able to put away his gluttonous repast, for watching them. When then this Powhatan summon'd to his couch three of his evillest-appearing lieutenants, all coal'd & oyl'd & bedaub'd & betassel'd & bedizen'd, and commenc'd with them a long colloquy of heathen grunts & whisperings, the purport whereof was unequivocall, I once againe commended my soule to Gods mercie, for I look'd to met him shortlie face to face. My C
^apt
pay'd no heede, but went on blindlie with his sport.

My. . . feares, it was soon prov'd, were justify'd. The Emperour made a signall, and the three great Salvages lay'd hold of my C
^apt
. Despite his protestations, the w
^ch
were lowd enow, he was carry'd up to Powhatans couch, and there forc'd to his knees. The Salvages lay'd his head upon a paire of greate stones, put there for the purpose, and catching up there uglie war-clubbs, had beate out what smalle braines my C
^apt
might make claim to, were it not that at this juncture, the Queene her selfe, to my astonishment, interceded. Running to the altar, she flung her selfe bodilie upon my C
^apt
, and declar'd to Powhatan, that rather w
^d
she loose her owne head, then that they s
^hd
dash in his. Were I the Emperour, I owne I s
^hd
have done the twain to death, for that so cleare an alliance c
^d
lead but to adulterie ere long. But Powhatan stay'd his bullies; the assemblie was dismist, saving only the Emperour, his Queene, my C
^apt
,
& my selfe (who all seem'd to have forgot, thank God), and for the nonce, it appear'd, my heart w
^d
go on beating in my breast. . .

[There follow'd] a speech by the Emperour, w
^ch
, as best I grasp'd it, was unusuall as it was improper. Some I grant escap'd me, for that Powhatan spake with great rapiditie and chew'd his wordes withal. But the summe of what I gather'd was, that the Queene was not his Queene at all, neither one amongst his concubines, but his daughter, her name being
Pocahontas.
By this name is signify'd, in there tongue,
the smalle one,
or
she of the smallnesse and impenetrabilitie,
and this, it seem'd, referr'd not to the maidens stature, w
^ch
was in sooth but slight, nor to her mind, w
^ch
one c
^d
penetrate with passing ease. Rather it reflected, albeit grosslie, a singular physickal shortcoming in the childe, to witt: her privitie was that nice, and the tympanum therein so surpassing stowt, as to render it infrangible. This fact greatlie disturb'd the Emperour, for that in his nation the barbarous custom was practic'd, that whensoever a maid be affianc'd, the Salvage, who wisheth to wed her, must needs first fracture that same membrane, whereupon the suitor is adjudg'd a man worthie of his betrothed, and the nuptialls followe. Now Powhatan, we were told, had on sundrie occasions chosen warriors of his people to wedd this Pocahontas, but in everie instance the ceremonie had to be foregone, seeing that labour as they might, none had been able to deflowr her, and in sooth the most had done them selves hurt withal, in there efforts; whereas, the proper thing was, to injure the young lasse, and that as grievouslie as possible, the degree of injurie being reck'd a measure of the mans virilitie. Inasmuch as the Salvages are wont to marrie off there daughters neare twelve yeares of age, it was deem'd a disgracefull thing, the Emperour s
^hd
have a daughter sixteene, who was yet a maide.

Continuing this discourse, [Powhatan] said, that whereas his daughter had seen fitt, to save my C
^apts
life, what time it had been the Emperours pleasure to dashe out his braines, then my C
^apt
must needs regard him selfe affianc'd to her, and submit him selfe to that same labour (to witt, essaying the gate to Venus grottoe) as her former suitors. But. . . with this difference, that where, having fail'd, her Salvage beaux had merelie been disgrac'd, and taunted as olde women, my C
^apt
,
s
^hd
he prove no better, his head w
^d
be lay'd againe upon the stones, and the clubbing of his braines proceed without quarter or respite.

All this Pocahontas heard with greate joye, maugre its nature, W
^ch
w
^d
have mortify'd an English ladie; and my C
^apt
, too, accepted readilie (in sooth he had no option in the matter). For my part, I was pleas'd to gaine reprieve once more from the butchers block, albeit a briefe one, for I could not see, since that the Salvages were of large stature, and my C
^apt
so slight of build, how that he s
^hd
triumph where they had fail'd, unlesse there were some wondrous disproportion, in both cases, betwixt the size of what in each was visible, and what conceal'd, to the casuall eye. My fate, it seem'd, hung on my C
^apts
, and for that I bade him Godspeed, preferring to heare for ever his endlesse boasting (w
^ch
w
^d
surelie followe his successe), then to wett with my braines the Salvage clubbs, w
^ch
fate awaited me upon his failure. The carnall joust was set for sunup, in the publick yard of sorts, that fronted the Emperours house, and the entire towne was order'd to be present. This alone, I wot, w
^d
have suffic'd to unstarch an ordinarie man, my selfe included, who am wont to worshipp Venus (after my fashion) in the privacie of darken'd couches; but my C
^apt
appear'd not a whitt ruffl'd, and in sooth seem'd eager to make his essaye publicklie. This, I take it, is apt measure of his swinishnesse, for that whenas a gentleman is forc'd, against his will, to some abominable worke, he will dispatch it with as much expedition, and as little notice, as he can, whereas the rake & foole will noise the matter about, drawing the eyes of the world to his follie & license, and is never more content, then when he hath an audience to his mischief. . .

[Here endeth the existing portion of the journal.]

" 'Dslife, what a place to end it!" Ebenezer cried when he had finished the manuscript, and hurried to find Burlingame. "Was there no more, Henry?"

"Not another word, I swear't, for I combed the town to find the rest."

"But marry, one must know how matters went -- whether this hateful Smith made good his boasts, or thy poor ancestor lost his life."

"Ah well," Burlingame replied, "this much we know, that both escaped, for Smith went on that same year to explore the Chesapeake, and Burlingame at least set down this narrative. What's more, if I be not a bastard he must needs have got himself a wife in later years, for none is mentioned here. I'God, Eben, I cannot tell you how I yearn to know the rest!"

"And I," laughed Ebenezer, "for though belike she was no poet, this Pocahontas was twice the virgin I am!"

To Ebenezer's surprise, Burlingame blushed deeply. "That is not what I meant."

"I know full well you didn't; 'tis your ancestry concerns you. Yet 'tis no vulgar curiosity, this other: the fall of virgins always is instructive, nor doth the world e'er weary of the tale. And the harder the fall, the better."

"Indeed?" Burlingame smiled, regaining his composure. "And prithee tell me, What lesson doth it teach?"

" 'Tis odd that I should be the teacher and you the pupil," Ebenezer said, "yet I will own 'tis a subject close to my heart, and one to which I've given no small attention. My conclusion is, that mankind sees two morals in such tales: the fall of innocence, or the fall of pride. The first sort hath its archetype in Adam; the second in Satan. The first alone hath not the sting of tragedy, as hath the second: the virgin pure and simple, like Pocahontas, is neither good nor vicious for her hymen; she is only envied, as is Adam, by the fallen. They secretly rejoice to see her ravaged, as poor men smile to see a rich man robbed -- e'en the virtuous fallen can feel for her no more than abstract pity. The second is the very stuff of drama, for the proud man oft excites our admiration; we live, as't were, by proxy in his triumphs, and are cleansed and taught by proxy in his fall. When we heap obloquy on Satan, is't not ourselves we scold, for that we secretly admire his Heavenly insurrection?"

"That all seems sound," said Burlingame. "It follows, doth it not, that when you profess abhorrence for the Captain, thou'rt but chastising yourself in like manner, or that part of you that wisheth him success?"

" 'Tis unequivocally the case," Ebenezer agreed, "whene'er the critic's of the number of the fallen. For myself, 'twere as if a maid should cheer her ravisher, or my Lord Baltimore support John Coode."

"I think that neither is impossible, but let it go. I will say now, thine own fall, when it comes, must needs be glorious, inasmuch as thou'rt both innocent and proud."

"Wherein lies my pride?" asked Ebenezer, clearly disconcerted by his friend's observation.

"In thy very innocence, which you raise above mere circumstance and make a special virtue. 'Tis a Christain reverence you bear it, I swear!"

"Christian in a sense," Ebenezer replied, "albeit your Christians -- St. Paul excepted -- pay scant reverence to chastity in men. 'Tis valued as a sign -- nay, a double sign, for't harketh back alike to Eve and Mary. Therein lies its difference from the cardinal virtues, which refer to naught beyond themselves: adultery's a mortal sin, proscribed by God's commandment -- not so fornication, I believe."

"Then virginity's a secondary virtue, is't not, and less to be admired than faithfulness? I think not even More would gainsay that."

"But recall," Ebenezer insisted, "I said 'twas only in a sense I share the Christians' feeling. Methinks that mankind's virtues are of two main sorts --"

"Aye, that we learn in school," said Burlingame, who seemed prepared to end the colloquy.
"Instrumental
if they lead us to some end, and
terminal
if we love them in themselves. 'Tis schoolmen's cant."

"Nay," said Ebenezer, "that is not what I meant; those terms bear little meaning to the Christian, I believe, who on the one hand hopes by all his virtues to reach Heaven, and yet will swear that virtue is its own reward. What I meant was, that sundry virtues are -- I might say
plain,
for want of proper language, and some
significant.
Among the first are honesty in speech and deed, fidelity, respect for mother and father, charity, and the like; the second head's comprised of things like eating fish on Friday, resting on the Sabbath, and coming virgin to the grave or marriage bed, whiche'er the case may be; they all mean naught when taken by themselves, like the strokes and scribbles we call
writing
-- their virtue lies in what they stand for. Now the first, whether so designed or not, are matters of public policy, and thus apply to prudent men, be they heathens or believers. The second have small relevance to prudence, being but signs, and differ from faith to faith. The first are social, the second religious; the first are guides lor life, the second forms of ceremony; the first practical, the second mysterious or poetic --"

"I grasp the principle," Burlingame said.

"Well then," Ebenezer declared, "it follows that this second sort are
purer,
after a fashion, and in this way not inferior at all, but the reverse."

"La, you have the heart of a Scholastic," Burlingame said disgustedly. "I see no
purity
in 'em, save that all the sense is filtered out -- the residue is nonsense."

"As you wish, Henry -- I do not mean to argue Christianity but only my virginity, which if senseless is to me not therefore
nonsense,
but
essence.
'Tis but a sign as with the Christians, that I grant, yet it pointeth not to Eden or to Bethlehem, but to my soul. I prize it not as a virtue, but as the very emblem of my self, and when I call me virgin and poet 'tis not more boast than who should say I'm male and English. Prithee chide me no more on't, and let us end this discourse that pleaseth you so little."

"Nonetheless," Burlingame declared, " 'twill be a fall worth watching when you stumble."

"I do not mean to fall."

Burlingame shrugged. "What climber doth? 'Tis but the more likely in your case, for that you travel as't were asleep -- thy friend McEvoy was no dullard there, albeit a callous fellow. Yet haply the fall will open your eyes."

"I would have thought thee more my friend, Henry, but on this head thou'rt brusque as erst in London, when I went with Anna to St. Giles. Have you forgot that day in Cambridge, the pass wherein you found me? Or that malady whereof I spoke but yesterday, that I was wont to suffer in the winehouse? Think you I'd not rejoice," he went on, growing more aroused, "to be in sooth a climber, that stumbling would move men to fear and pity? I do not climb, but merely walk a road, and stumbling ne'er shall fall a mighty fall, but only cease to walk, or drift a wayless ship on every current, or haply just moss over like a stone. I see nor spectacle nor instruction in such a fall."

Burlingame made no more of the matter and apologized to Ebenezer for his curtness. Nonetheless he remained out of sorts, as did the poet, for some hours afterwards, and in fact it was not until a short time before they arrived in Plymouth that they entirely regained their spirits, and Burlingame, at Ebenezer's request, took up again the tale of his adventures, which he'd left at his discovery of the fragmentary journal.