John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

"True enough," Burlingame said good-humoredly. "I wished only to establish that all assertions of thee and me, e'en to oneself, are acts of faith, impossible to verify."

"I grant it; I grant it. 'Tis established like the — " He waved his hand uncertainly. "Marry, your discourse hath robbed me of similes: I know of naught immutable and sure!"

" 'Tis the first step on the road to Heaven," Burlingame smiled.

"That may be," Ebenezer said, "or haply 'tis the road to Hell."

Burlingame cocked his eyebrows. " 'Tis the same road, or good Dante is a liar. Thou'rt quite content that I am Burlingame?"

"Quite, I swear't!"

"And thou'rt Ebenezer?"

"I never doubted it; and still thy pupil, as this carriage ride hath shown."

"Good. Another time I'll ask you what me and thee refer to, but not now."

"No, i'faith, not now, for I've a thousand things to ask of you!"

"And I to tell," Burlingame said. "But so fantastic a tale it is, my first concern is for thy credulity, and thus I deemed necessary all this Sophistical discourse."

Not long afterwards the carriage stopped at Aldershot, for it was well past suppertime, and the travelers had not eaten. Burlingame, therefore, as was his habit, postponed all further conversation on the subject while he and Ebenezer dined on cold capon and potatoes. Afterwards, having been informed by their driver that there would be a two-hour wait for the horses and driver which would take them on to Salisbury, Exeter, and Plymouth, they took seats before the fire, at Burlingame's suggestion, with their pipes and a quart of Bristol sherry. It had grown dark outside; a light rain began to fall. Ebenezer waited impatiently for his friend to begin, but Burlingame, when his pipe was lighted and his glass filled, sighed a comfortable sigh and asked merely, "How fares your father these days, Eben?"

"Father be damned!" Ebenezer cried. "I know not whether he lives or dies, nor greatly care till I've heard your story!"

"Yet you know who he is, alive or dead, do you not? And in that respect, if not some others, who you are."

"Pray let us dismiss old Andrew for the nonce," Ebenezer pleaded, "as he hath dismissed me. Where have you been, and what done and seen? Wherefore the name Peter Sayer, and your wondrous alterations? Commence the tale, and a fig for old Andrew!"

"How dismiss him?" Burlingame asked. " 'Twas he commenced my story, what time he dismissed me."

"What? Is't that nonsense over Anna you refer to? How doth it bear upon your tale?"

"What towering wrath!" Burlingame said. "What murtherous alarm! I'God, the hate he bore me — I am awed by't even yet!"

"I've ne'er excused him for it," Ebenezer said shortly.

"Your privilege, as his son. But I, Eben, I excused him on the instant; forgave him — nay, e'en admired him for't. Had he made to slay me — ah, well, but no matter."

Ebenezer shook his head. " 'Tis past my understanding. But say, must I give up hope of hearing your tale?"

"Thou'rt hearing it," Burlingame declared. " 'Tis the pier whereon the entire history rests; the lute-work that ushers in the song."

"So be't. But I fear me 'twill be a tadpole of a history, whose head is greater than his body. You forgave him, then?"

"More, I loved him for't, and scurried off in shame."

"Yet 'twas a false and vicious charge he charged you!"

Burlingame shrugged. "As for that, 'twas not his justice awed me, but his great concern for his child."

"A marvelous concern he bears us, right enough," Ebenezer said. "He will wreck us with his concern! Suppose he'd birched her bloody, as you told me once he threatened: would you not adore and worship such concern?"

"I would kill him for't," Burlingame replied, "but love him none the less."

"Marry, thou'rt come a wondrous way from London, where I left you! Why did you not applaud my resolution to go home with Anna, seeing 'twas pure filial solicitude that prompted it?"

"You mistake me," Burlingame said. "I'd oppose it still, and Anna's bending to his every humor. Were I his son I'd be disowned ere now for flying in the face of his concern; but what a priceless prize it is, Eben! What a wealthy man I'd be, to throw away such treasure! The fellow repines in bed for grief at losing you; he dictates the course of your life to make you worthy of your line! Who grieves for me, prithee, or cares a fig be I fop or philosopher? Who sets me goals to turn my back on, or values to thumb my nose at? In fine, sir, what business have I in the world, what place to flee from, what credentials to despise? Had I a home I'd likely leave it; a family alive or dead I'd likely scorn it, and wander a stranger in alien towns. But what a burden and despair to be a stranger to the world at large, and have no link with history! 'Tis as if I'd sprung de novo like a maggot out of meat, or dropped from the sky. Had I the tongue of angels I ne'er could tell you what a loneliness it is!"

"I cannot fathom it," Ebenezer declared. "Is this the man that stood in Thames Street praising Heav'n he knew naught of his forebears?"

" 'Twas a desperate speech" — Burlingame smiled — "like a pauper's diatribe on the sinfulness of wealth. When the twain of you had gone I felt my loneliness as ne'er before, and thought long of Captain Salmon and gentle Melissa that raised me. Do you recall that day in Cambridge when you asked me how I came to be called Henry Burlingame the Third?"

"Aye, and you replied 'twas the name you'd borne from birth."

"I spent some hours grousing in my chamber," Burlingame said, "and at length I came to see this pompous name of mine as the most precious thing I owned. Who bestowed it on me? Wherefore Burlingame Third, and not just Burlingame?"

" 'Sheart, I see your meaning!" Ebenezer said. " 'Tis your name that links you with your forebears; thou'rt not wholly ex nihilo after all! 'Tis a kind of clue to the riddle!"

Burlingame nodded. "And did I not profess to be a scholar?" He refilled his glass with Bristol sherry. "Then and there I made myself a vow," he said, "to learn the name and nature of my father, the circumstances of my birth, and haply the place and manner of his death; nor would I value any business higher, but ransack the very planet in my quest till I had found my answer or died a-searching. And search I have — i'faith! — these seven years. 'Tis the one business of my life."

"Then marry, I must hear the tale of't, that I've waited for too long already. Drink off your sherry and commence, nor will I stand for interruption till the tale be done."

"As you wish," Burlingame said. He drank the wine and filled his pipe besides, and told the following story:

"How should a man discover the history of his parentage when he knows not whence he came or how, or even whether the name he bears hath any authenticity? For think not I was blind to't, Eben, that my one hope might be a false one: what evidence had I 'twas not some jest or happenstance, this name of mine, or perchance some other guardians, that nursed me up from infancy till Captain Salmon chanced along? It wants but pluck to vow to build a bridge, yet pluck will never build it. I cast about me for a first step, and betook myself at last to Bristol, where I thought perchance to find some that knew at least my Captain and recalled his orphan ward — and privily, I'll own, I prayed to meet some old and trusted friend of his, or kin, that might know the full story of my origin. 'Twas not unthinkable he might have told the tale, I reasoned, if not broadcast then at least to one or two, unless there was some mighty sin about it."

Ebenezer frowned. "Such as what? The man you've pictured me ne'er could stoop to kidnaping."