John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

"Indeed," admitted Ebenezer, shaking his head, "it had not struck me ere now, what a sad lot is women's. What beasts we are!"

"Ah, well," sighed Joan, " 'tis small concern o' mine, save when I reflect on't now and again: a whore loses little sleep on such nice questions. So long as a man hath my price in his purse and smells somewhat more sweet than a tanyard and leaves me in peace come morning, I shan't say him nay nor send him off ill-pleased with his purchase. And I love a virgin as a child loves a new pup, to make him stand and beg for't, or lie and play dead. Off your knees, then, and to bed with ye, ere ye take a quartan ague from the draught! There's many a trick I'll teach ye!"

So saying she held out her arms to him, and Ebenezer, breaking at once into sweat and goose bumps from the contest between his ardor and the cold March draughts in which for a quarter hour he'd been kneeling, embraced her fervently.

"Dear God, is't true?" he cried. "What astonishment it is, to be granted all suddenly in fact what one hath yearned for time out of mind in dreams! Dear heart, what a bewilderment! No words come! My arms fail me!"

"Let not thy purse fail thee," Joan remarked, "and for the rest, leave't to me."

"But 'fore God I love thee, Joan Toast!" Ebenezer moaned. "Can it be you think yet of the filthy purse?"

"Do but pay me my five guineas ere ye commence," Joan said, "and then love me 'fore God or man, 'tis all one to me."

"You will drive me to Bedlam with your five guineas!" Ebenezer shouted. "I love thee as never man loved woman, I swear't, and rather would I throttle thee, or suffer myself throttled, than turn my love to mere whoremongering with that accursed five guineas! I will be thy vassal; I will fly with thee down the coasts of earth; I will deliver soul and body into thy hands for very love; but I will not take thee for my whore while breath is in me!"

"Ah then, 'tis after all a fraud and deceit!" Joan cried, her eyes flashing. "Ye think to gull me with thee's and thy's and your prattle o' love and chastity! I say pay me my fee, Eben Cooke, or I'll leave ye this minute for ever and all; and 'tis many the hour ye'll curse your miserliness, when word of't reaches my Johnny McEvoy!"

"I cannot," Ebenezer said.

"Then know that I despise ye for a knave and fool!" Joan jumped from the bed and snatched up her garments.

"And know that I love thee for my savior and inspiration!" Ebenezer replied. "For ne'er till you came to me this night have I been a man, but a mere dotting oaf and fop; and ne'er till I embraced thee have I been a poet, but a shallow coxcomb and poetaster! With thee, Joan, what deeds could I not accomplish! What verse not write! Nay, e'en should you scorn me in your error and ne'er look on me more, I will love thee nonetheless, and draw power and purpose from my love. For so strong is't, that e'en unrequited it shall sustain and inspire me; but should God grant thee wit to comprehend and receive it and return it as then you would perforce, why, the world would hear such verses as have ne'er been struck, and our love would stand as model and exemplar to all times! Scorn me, Joan, and I shall be a splendid fool, a Don Quixote tilting for his ignorant Dulcinea; but I here challenge thee — if you've life and fire and wit enough, love me truly as I love thee, and then shall I joust with bona fide giants and bring them low! Love me, and I swear to thee this: I shall be Poet Laureate of England!"

"Methinks thou'rt a Bedlamite already," Joan snapped, hooking up her dress. "As for my ignorance, I had rather be fool than scoundrel, and yet rather scoundrel than madman, and in sooth I believe thou'rt all three in one skin. Mayhap I'm dolt enough not to grasp this grand passion ye make such claim to, but I've mother wit enough to see when I'm hoaxed and cheated. My John shall hear of't."

"Ah Joan, Joan!" Ebenezer pleaded. "Are you then indeed unworthy? For I declare to thee solemnly: no man will e'er offer thee another such love."

"Do but offer me my rightful fee, and I'll say not a word to John: the rest o' your offer ye may put back in your hat."

"So," sighed Ebenezer, still transported, "you are unworthy! So be't, if't must: I love thee no less for't, or for the sufferings I shall welcome in thy name!"

"May ye suffer French pox, ye great ass!" Joan replied, and left the room in a heat.

Ebenezer scarcely noted her departure, so full was he of his love; he strode feverishly about the bedchamber, hands clasped behind his back, pondering the depth and force of his new feeling. "Am I waked to the world from a thirty-year sleep?" he asked himself. "Or is't only now I've begun to dream? Surely none awake e'er felt such dizzy power, nor any man in dreams such bursting life! Hi! A song!"

He ran to his writing-desk, snatched up his quill, and with little ado penned the following song:

Not Priam for the ravag'd Town of Troy,

Andromache for her bouncing Baby Boy,

Ulysses for his chaste Penelope,

Bare the Love, dear Joan , I bear for Thee!

But as cold Semele priz'd Endymion,

And Phaedra sweet Hippolytus her Step-Son,

He being Virgin — so, I pray may Ye

Whom I love, love my stainless Chastity.

For 'tis no niggard Gift, my Innocence,

But one that, giv'n, defieth Recompense;

No common Jewel pluck'd from glist'ring Hoard,

But one that, taken, ne'er can be restor'd.

Preserv'd, my Innocence preserveth Me

From Life, from Time, from Death, from History;

Without it I must breathe Man's mortal Breath:

Commence a Life - and thus commence my Death!

When he was done composing he wrote at the bottom of the page Ebenezer Cooke, Gent., Poet and Laureate of England, just to try the look of it, and, regarding it, was pleased.

" 'Tis now but a question of time," he rejoiced. "Faith, 'tis a rare wise man knows who he is: had I not stood firm with Joan Toast, I might well ne'er have discovered that knowledge! Did I, then, make a choice? Nay, for there was no I to make it! 'Twas the choice made me: a noble choice, to prize my love o'er my lust, and a noble choice bespeaks a noble chooser. What am I? What am I? Virgin, sir! Poet, sir! I am a virgin and a poet; less than mortal and more; not a man, but Mankind! I shall regard my innocence as badge of my strength and proof of my calling: let her who's worthy of't take it from me!"

Just then the servant Bertrand tapped softly on the door and entered, candle in hand, before Ebenezer had a chance to speak.

"Should I retire now, sir?" he asked, and added with an enormous wink, "Or will there be more visitors?"

Ebenezer blushed. "Nay, nay, go to bed."

"Very good, sir. Pleasant dreams."

"How's that?"

But Bertrand, with another great wink, closed the door.

"Really," Ebenezer thought, "the fellow is presumptuous!" He returned to the poem and reread it several times with a frown.

" 'Tis a gem," he admitted, "but there wants some final touch. ."

He scrutinized it line for line; at Bare the Love, dear Joan, I bear for Thee he paused, furrowed his great brow, pursed his lips, squinted his eyes, tapped his foot and scratched his chin with the feather of his quill.

"Hm," he said.

After some thought, he inked his quill and struck out Joan, setting in its place the word Heart. Then he reread the whole poem.

" 'Twas the master touch!" he declared with satisfaction. "The piece is perfect."