Thirty-nine
“He’s in London, you know. Then he’s going to Paris.”
For once Guillaudeu welcomed the interruption. He was staring at the empty bookshelves again. He could not think of where to begin, or how to find the books that would help him proceed: animal behavior, accounts of the wilderness, whales, and orang-outangs in particular. On a slip of paper he had written Lamarck?
“Who told you?”
“Who told me? Who told me?” Mr. Archer had burst into the office with startling vigor. The ad man waved a newspaper. Guillaudeu recoiled.
“The Atlas told me, that’s who. Barnum has set up a regular column with them. A Public Correspondence, as they call it.” He looked away, as if the newspaper were an unfaithful lover. “He didn’t even tell me. And I’m supposed to know these things.”
Guillaudeu took the paper. Archer walked stiffly to his side of the office and sat down.
“It’s brilliant, of course,” Archer muttered. “Even when he’s gone, he’s here.”
“London. May the eighteenth. A missive from the Royal Exhibition.” Guillaudeu looked up. “Or would you prefer I didn’t read aloud?”
“Go ahead. I didn’t get through the whole thing anyway.”
“Dear Editors and People of New York: Nearly all the exhibitions in London employ a dozen or two men to go about the streets carrying their billboards far above their heads, being attached to a pole, which they carry on their shoulders. Thus you will meet these itinerant advertisers with their lofty placards, announcing the place and time of exhibiting the Chinese Collection, Ojibeway Indians, Wilson’s Scottish Entertainments, and others.
“While taking my morning ride the other day, I discovered a new moving sign of this kind, many rods ahead of me. It had large brass letters of the highest polish, and they glistened in the sun like burnished gold, and therefore could be seen at a great distance. There! Thinks I, here is another show arrived in town, and a formidable opposition it may prove, for really they are cutting a splendid dash.
“As we approached the moving sign board, I began wondering what exhibit could it be — whether it was a cannibal, a trained tiger, a learned pig; but my question was soon solved, for we came so near that I could read the show bill, and what do you think it was! This was the whole inscription: PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD. On the reverse side also the same. This brass bill contained not another word, and of course gave no clue to the names of its projectors; but I felt quite anxious to learn what gentleman had opened this new branch of show business, and where they exhibited themselves. So I asked the board-man what show shop he belonged to, and what was the object of this brass mandate. He replied that ‘Church meetings were held three times per day at present, at Exeter Hall,’ and that he was sent out from that church!
“What blasphemy it is thus to make a show and merchandize of the Word of God! But there are some fanatics in the world who would reduce the character of the Almighty to that of a Connecticut itinerant peddler. Such wretches are wolves in sheep’s clothing, and they deserve to be sheared twice a year. They inflict more injury on the pure principles of the gospel and the glorious and sublime doctrine of Christianity, than all the infidels in the universe combined.
“I have obtained many new curiosities, including numerous Cosmoramas and the smallest pair of ponies in the world — only 23 inches high. The same ship which takes this letter will convey them, and all interested parties can (for 25 cents — don’t forget that part of the story!) see them in detail, and ten thousand other wonderful objects of curiosity at the American Museum in New York, a place universally acknowledged as the most respectable, best conducted and worthy establishment, blending instruction with amusement, in the WORLD. In fact, its proprietor is looked on very justly as a public benefactor; and if he is not presented with the freedom of the city of New York by this great city’s recently new mayor, I shall look upon that new mayorship corporation as a set of ignorant dolts, who ought to be sentenced to a six months’ diet of bread and water without the benefit of clergy! As ever thine, P. T. B.”
Guillaudeu folded the newspaper. “Interesting to think of Barnum as a religious man.”
“Oh, he’s religious all right,” Archer said and snorted. “He’s just about as religious as a man can get under the broad, vague wing of Universalism. No” — Archer began to pace — “Connecticut itinerant peddler, indeed! I’m sure no one would ever accuse Barnum of selling trinkets at the temple. I cannot believe that he would set up this column without even telling me. I am, after all, his advertising agent. Did you know that an hour ago I was having a steak pie at Sweeney’s, when Mr. Bauer, managing editor of the entertainment pages in the Atlas, no less, slapped me on the back and gave me his congratulations. ‘Congratulations?’ says I, looking around to see if it was some kind of practical joke. ‘Well, yes,’ says he, and shows me this published letter from London. Unfortunately I could not hide my surprise, and so Mr. Bauer immediately perceived the whole scheme was executed without my knowledge or, more important, my guidance. The whole thing was exceedingly embarrassing, and in Sweeney’s, of all places! Half the city’s newspapermen were in there with us. I fear it has shattered my credibility.”
“That sounds like an overstatement, Mr. Archer. I’m sure —”
“One can never be sure of anything in this business, Mr. Guillaudeu. That would undoubtedly be the end of you.”
“So you can be sure of uncertainty. That means there’s one thing —”
“I do not appreciate your attempt at wit,” Mr. Archer snapped.
“Well, I do not appreciate you invading my office.”
“Good Lord, not that again, please!” Archer looked at the ceiling. “Your precious office. Just because you have no life to speak of, outside of this building.”
“Get out.”
“You get out.”
“Get out!” Guillaudeu found that he was shrieking. “You superficial, conceited, slave … to the coin!”
“I am leaving of my own accord,” Mr. Archer announced with a queer, fixed smile on his face. He paraded to the hat stand for his coat and his cane.
“No, you aren’t! I am throwing you out.”
“You’re wrong.” Archer turned. “I simply humor you, old man.” And he vanished.
Guillaudeu sat unmoving in his seat for a full minute, waiting for his heart to quiet and his breath to return to normal. He could not remember the last time he’d been in a yelling match and it disturbed him. Then it delighted him. He huffed out a chirpy hiccup that could have been a laugh, and shook his head, rising from his chair. He straightened his waistcoat. It was two o’clock: time to feed the whale.
Two buckets of herring were waiting for him as usual outside the museum’s side door on Ann Street. He hauled them back into the hallway and past Barnum’s office toward the waxworks, but he could not carry them both and had to make two trips up the back stairwell.
When he arrived with the second bucket he was panting and wishing he were a younger man. Across the fifth-floor gallery the tribesman stood at the top of the ladder at the beluga tank, with the first bucket of fish in one hand.
Despite all the changes while he’d been walking through field and valley, Guillaudeu had seen no evidence that this tribesman had been on display. No pamphlets, no transparencies, none of Mr. Archer’s hyperbolic effusions in the newspaper. The tribesman had barely crossed his mind since the day he’d banished Cuvier to the cellar. But here he was, wearing decent trousers, leaning over the edge of the tank. He must be sixty years old, Guillaudeu observed. The man dipped his hand into the bucket and held out a fish. In a moment the delicate white maw of the whale appeared under his hands and delicately plucked the herring from his hand. The tribesman held out another fish with the same result.
Guillaudeu watched the tribesman daintily feed the whale, the expression on the older man’s face not changing in the slightest, even when the beluga cooed appreciatively and clucked in apparent satisfaction. When the first bucket was empty, the tribesman handed it down to Guillaudeu and beckoned for the other.
Guillaudeu handed it up. “Thank you,” he said uncertainly.
When the second had been doled out, the tribesman climbed down from the ladder and looked at Guillaudeu.
“I could use your help with these buckets in the morning,” Guillaudeu ventured. It seemed odd to ask an older man for help. The two men blinked at each other.
“Museum,” replied the tribesman and walked away.
On the roof, the Happy Family was looking decidedly bedraggled; now that the weather was warming up they needed some shade. Guillaudeu unlocked the wooden door to the cage and ducked inside. The prairie squirrels immediately ran up and all three sat up on their hind legs, tapping their short tails.
“All right!” Guillaudeu laughed, filling their bowl with chopped vegetables. The coyote retreated to the farthest corner and stood with its back to Guillaudeu. He filled each food bowl one by one. The snake lay sleeping, still half inside the remnants of its old skin, which hung in crinkled tatters.
On the way back down, Guillaudeu visited the aquaria on the fourth floor: the octopus tank, seahorses, huge vats of tropical fish. He had been astonished to discover that museum visitors were in the habit of tossing things, usually food detritus or ticket stubs, into the animal cages. He would need to conduct several daily patrols to make sure none of the animals were harmed.
He skipped down the stairs of the back stairwell two at a time, his head full of the animals. He would conduct patrols, keep a detailed journal of the animals’ behavior, perhaps even initiate a correspondence with one of the zoologists in Philadelphia. He wondered if Barnum might consider placing him in charge of obtaining new members of the menagerie, so that Guillaudeu could realign the methods of acquisition with taxonomic propriety.
Guillaudeu stopped abruptly as he approached the second-floor landing. A strange shape flitted across his mind. He closed his eyes to see it better: a soft, delicate creature housed in a curved horn was hovering in the black sea of his mind’s eye. Wavy brown lines against a milky white shell. He saw it clearly now: Nautilus pompilius. Guillaudeu gasped, delighted. Not a puzzle, though there were many interlocking parts. Not a hive, but a nautilus.
On the surface, of course, the museum would appear not to be a spiral. But the longer he kept the nautilus in mind, slowly spinning in the black abyss of deepest water, the more certain Guillaudeu became: The museum resembled this strange creature. The main stairway, drawing people up and around, was the siphon. The dense crowds streaming through acted as water, gaining pressure and generating propulsion. The museum itself did not move, of course, except with the current of public fancy and at the bidding of Barnum’s hidden will. But like the mollusk, the museum contained chamber after chamber, instinctively constructing its graceful architecture to facilitate its own growth, as well as to house the movements of the public’s imagination. But wasn’t there also a distinction, Guillaudeu mused, between the expansive, outward spiral and the destructive inward one? This museum, it seemed, accommodated both the galaxy and the maelstrom. Wasn’t the nautilus, after all, one of the most famous examples of the divine proportion, so fundamental to the universe? And if the museum could accurately, if poetically, be described as a nautilus, how big would the spiral grow, and where was it propelling itself? Toward some new age, whose rules and form were still malleable ideas in the minds of the populace? Or was it spiraling toward its own violent implosion?
Exhilarated by his revelations, and buoyed by the sense that he had gotten the better of Barnum by discovering such a profound symbol for the building he loved so well, Guillaudeu hurried down the last flight of stairs toward his office to write it all down.
“Emile!” It was William, leaning out from behind the ticket counter with something in his hand. “A letter came for you.”
Guillaudeu grabbed the envelope without looking at it and continued through his office door. On the other side he found Archer, whistling ostentatiously.
“Don’t worry, my dear Guillaudeu,” said the ad man, tipping his hat. “Our problem is solved, and I hold no ill feelings. You will once again have dominion over all of your lands.” He gestured at the room. “I’ve found a new abode.”
“You’re moving out?”
“Yes. To a somewhat more … discreet location.”
“But I thought —”
“Yes, well, let’s just say sometimes it behooves a person to fade to the background for a time. You shall soon see what I mean. I’ll leave it at that. Someone will be here for my things in an hour or so. I’m taking the remainder of this day off. I have … well … I will not regret the time we’ve spent together, despite our … differences. My office will be along the inner hallway.” Archer continued, pointing away from the street. “Beyond the waxworks. Not too far from Barnum’s.”
“A good place to work. Quiet.” Guillaudeu did not know what else to say.
“Quiet. Good. Well.”
When he left, Mr. Archer closed the door silently behind him. After the noise of the crowds and the animals, Guillaudeu found the office gloomily silent. Wasn’t there something he was going to do? His momentum gone, he tapped the fingers of one hand on his desk and looked anywhere but the empty shelves. He slumped into his chair. Still staring blankly ahead, he fingered the envelope William had delivered. Slowly, he registered the embossed lettering, the stamped insignia, as those of the Lyceum of Natural History. Gawking, he smoothed the letters lightly with his fingertips and held the envelope for some time before he opened it.
Impressed with the importance of the study of Natural History as connected with the wants, comforts, and the happiness of mankind, and particularly as it relates to the illustration of the physical character of the country we inhabit, We the members of the Lyceum of Natural History do hereby invite you, Mr. Emile Guillaudeu, to associate yourself with us as a Resident Member, for the better cultivation and more extensive promotion of the above.
The meeting was tomorrow. Tomorrow! He knew there was an intricate and often lengthy procedure for inducting new members. How had he even come to their attention, after all this time? Could it have been Barnum himself who nominated him?
Years ago he’d petitioned the society and practically begged for admission, but after receiving no reply, and no acknowledgment from Lyceum members who had visited Scudder’s collection over the years, he’d given it up. He’d always hoped they would one day see him as one of their brethren, and they finally had. Excitedly, he looked around his empty office.