John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

"Enough, I beg you!" Ebenezer cried, "My head spins! For God's sake what's your point?"

"No more than what I said before, sir: that de'il the bit ye've tramped about the world, and bleared your eyes with books, and honed your wits in clever company, whate'er ye yea is nay'd by the man just a wee bit simpler and again by the fellow just a wee bit brighter, so that clever folk care less for what ye think than why ye think it. 'Tis this that saves me."

But Ebenezer could not see why. " 'Tis that shall scotch you, I should fancy! A fool can parrot a wise man's judgment but never hope to defend it."

"And only a fool would try," said Bertrand, with upraised finger. "Your poet hath no need to."

Ebenezer's features did a dance.

"What I mean, sir," Bertrand explained, "when they come upon me with one of their mighty questions — only yestere'en, for instance, they'd have me say my piece on witchery, whether I believed in it or no — why, all I do is smile me a certain smile and say, 'Why not?' and there's an end on't! The ones that agree are pleased enough, and as for the skeptical fellows, they've no way to tell if I'm a spook-ridden dullard or a breed of mystic twice as wise as they. Your poet need never trouble his head to explain at all: men think he hath a passkey to Dame Truth's bedchamber and smiles at the scholars building ladders in the court. This Civility and Sense ye preach of are his worst enemies; he must pinch the ladies' bosoms and pull the schoolmen's beards. His manner is his whole argument, as't were, and that certain whimsical smile his sole rebuttal."

"No more," Ebenezer said sharply. "I'll hear no more!"

Bertrand smiled his whimsical smile. "Yet surely 'tis the simple truth?"

"There is skin of truth on't, yes," the Laureate granted; "but 'tis like the mask of sense on a madman or a film of ice on a skaters' pond — it only makes what lies beneath more sinister."

Just then the bell was rung for the gentlemen and ladies to come to supper.

" 'Tis our goose that's cooked," Ebenezer said gloomily. "You'll see this hour Miss Robotham marked your ignorance."

"Haply so," said Bertrand with his smile, "but I'd stake your last farthing she thinks I'm a bloody Solomon. We'll know soon enough who's right."

It was, in fact, closer to four hours before the Laureate was able to speak privately with his man again, for long after the servants had themselves finished eating, the fine folk lingered at cards and brandy in the main cabin. Their very merriment, of course — the sounds of which Ebenezer heard clearly where he stood by the foremast, brooding on the moonlit ocean — seemed to indicate that nothing was seriously amiss; nevertheless his exasperation was tempered by relief when finally he saw Bertrand emerge on the quarter-deck with Captain Meech himself, still laughing at some private joke, and fire up his pipe at the smoking-lamp. The poet felt a pang of envy, yet it was not Bertrand's manner alone that disturbed him; the truth was, he found the man's cynical argument as attractive as his own reply and was at bottom satisfied with neither. For that reason, when he asked what had been said at supper concerning the literary wager of the afternoon, he was, if saddened, not surprised by the report.

" 'Twas the talk of the table, right enough, sir." Bertrand puffed and frowned at his pipe. "The Robotham wench told what I'd said and how ye'd glossed it, word for word. To speak plainly, sir, the Colonel, her father, then asked me why I abided so brash a servant, if ye'll pardon me, as presumes to speak for's master. The rest took up the cry, and the young piece said at last, one could know me for a poet by the look of me, and yourself for a byo-. . beo-. .. something or other."

"Boeotian," the Laureate said glumly.

"Aye. 'Twas another of her smutty words."

Ebenezer then inquired, not enthusiastically, what answer his man had made.

"What could I say, to end their gossip? I told 'em flat that naught matters in a secretary save his penmanship. The Captain then summoned up old strumpet Fortune again, that seems their favorite bawd: he knew the passage through, he said, but had forgot just when 'twas spoke in some play or other he named."

"Ah." Ebenezer closed his eyes almost hopefully. "Then 'tis over and done with us, after all."

"How's that, sir? I didn't bat an eyelash, thankee, but declared 'twas spoke on shipboard an hour past noon, when the post lost his last quid on a short day's run." He pulled again on his pipe and spat with satisfaction at the rolling ocean. "No more was said of't after that."

After the foregoing conversations with Bertrand, Ebenezer's dissatisfaction with his position was no longer confined to mealtimes; rather, he took to a general brooding and spiritual malaise. He could write no verse: even the sight of a school of great whales, which in happier times would have set his fancy spinning, now called forth not a single rhyme. At best he had got on indifferently with his messmates; now they sensed his distaste, and resentment added malice to the jokes they made at his expense. When, therefore, after perhaps a week of this solitary discontent, Bertrand confided to him with a happy leer that Lucy Robotham was about to become the Maryland Laureate's mistress, his reaction to the news was anything but hospitable.

"Lay a finger on her," he threatened, "and you'll finish your crossing in leg irons."

"Ah, well, 'tis a little late for that advice, sir; the quail is bagged and plucked, and wants but basting on the spit."

"No, I say!" Ebenezer insisted, as much impatient as appalled. "Why must I say it twice? Your gambling runs counter to my better judgment, but fornication — 'tis counter to my very essence!"

Bertrand was altogether unruffled by his master's ire. "Not in the least," he said. "A poet without a mistress is a judge without a wig: 'tis the badge of his office, and the Laureate should keep a staff of 'em. My sole concern is to play the poet well, sir."

Ebenezer remained unpersuaded. " 'Tis an overnice concern that makes a whore of the Colonel's daughter!"

Here Bertrand protested that in fact his interest in Lucy Robotham was largely dispassionate: Colonel Robotham, he had learned, was one of the original conspirators with John Coode who had overthrown Lord Baltimore's government in 1689, and, for all he was sailing presently under Governor Nicholson's protection, he might well be still in secret league with the insurrectionists. " 'Twould not surprise me," he declared, "if old Robotham's using the girl for bait. Why else would he watch us carry on so without a word? Aye, by Heav'n, I'll hoist him with his own petard!"

In the face of this new information and his valet's apparent talent for intrigue, Ebenezer's resolve began to weaken: his indignation changed to petulance. "You've a Sophist's gift for painting vice in virtue's color," he said. " 'Tis clear thou'rt out to make the most of my name and office."

"Then I have your leave, sir?"

"I wonder you even trouble to ask it these days."

"Ah, thankee, sir!" Bertrand's voice showed obvious relief. "Thou'rt a gentleman to the marrow and have twice the understanding of any wight on the boat! I knew ye for a fine soul the first I e'er laid eyes on you, when Master Andrew sent me to look to your welfare in London. In every thing — "

"Enough; you sicken me," the poet said. "What is't thou'rt after now, for God's sake? I know this flattery will cost me dear."

"Patience, I pray ye, sir," Bertrand pleaded in a tone quite other than that of his earlier conversations; he was for the nonce entirely the valet again. After reaffirming at length his faith in Ebenezer's understanding and their mutual interest in preserving their disguise, and asserting as well that they were of one mind as regarded the importance of gentlemanly wagering to that disguise, he confessed that he needed additional subsidizing to maintain appearances, and this at once.