Forty
When he saw the Lyceum of Natural History building for the first time, Guillaudeu was forced to correct his expectation that the establishment would at least attempt to imitate Aristotle’s original school in Athens, in which scholars paced under ornate covered walkways, hypothesizing the parameters of Nature’s great scheme amid gardens that reflected those patterns in miniature. He thought, at the very least, that its interior would be an enlargement of an Italian virtuoso’s study, with geodes and astronomical instruments crowded among half-unfurled maps of Patagonia.
He was disappointed to see that the Lyceum was housed in a narrow brick building identical to the residences on either side. As he stepped through the nondescript foyer, his remaining illusions dissolved. He was startled to find a medium-sized room, bare except for several tables on one side and a grouping of chairs in front of a small podium on the other. The only thing filling the room at the moment was conversation, emanating from the twenty or so men standing among tables not covered with instruments or specimens but with sandwiches.
Guillaudeu recovered quickly and approached these men not with his accustomed dread, but eagerly. He recognized some of their faces, even knew one or two by name. Before he lost his nerve he introduced himself to the first man he encountered, a friendly ornithologist called Dr. Putnam. Soon he’d met five other members of the Lyceum, all recently graduated from Columbia College’s new School of Natural Science.
“Mr. Guillaudeu is guardian to the creatures in Barnum’s American Museum,” Dr. Putnam explained to the younger men. “You’d be surprised how many zoological displays Barnum has installed.”
“I’m not sure I’m capable of being surprised inside that building,” said one of the men, a rotund young fellow by the name of Standish who appeared even younger than he was by the thick blond curls hanging about his face. “When I go to Barnum’s museum, I want to be surprised. And yet there is such a plethora of anomalies that it’s impossible to retain one’s sense of wonder. After an hour I expect surprise, which is most unsatisfactory. I can only imagine the effect of being there on a daily basis.”
“It is a strange place,” Guillaudeu agreed. “My attention is primarily devoted to the natural history collection and the new living menagerie,” he went on calmly. “I let most of the museum’s other contents pass by me without much consideration.”
“That’s all well and good,” replied Standish. “Until those other contents begin to affect your livelihood. I’ve been following the story of the family of acrobats in the Atlas. They’re still being held at the Tombs. I think it’s a shame that the museum hasn’t gotten them out by now. There are three women, one of them a grandmother!”
“Yes, that was an unpleasant business,” Guillaudeu replied. He did not say that he hadn’t kept up with the story beyond the headlines, or that ticket sales at the museum had jumped thanks to the press after the Martinettis’ arrest.
“So you are the keeper of Barnum’s menagerie!” Another man, also very young, joined in the group. He was a specialist in tropical fish, he was quick to assert.
“How in the world did he get those magnificent seahorses? I believe they are the only ones to be found on the eastern seaboard, if not the entire country.”
“Barnum has scouts all over the world,” Guillaudeu replied, feeling distinctly knowledgeable. “They bring the fish by boat to —”
“He must have a special arrangement,” Standish interrupted. “Because as far as I know, all imported fish must pass through the customhouse. I know for a fact that none of Barnum’s acquisitions has ever —”
“Let’s not get into the minutiae of it,” Dr. Putnam interjected. “I am so glad, Mr. Guillaudeu, that you have joined us. I believe our speaker for tonight is ready to begin. Are you acquainted with the work of Quincy Kipp?”
“No.” Guillaudeu hoped his ignorance would not be too noticeable.
“Well, Kipp didn’t have much to say about birds, which is a shame, but his work was interesting nonetheless.”
Dr. Putnam led Guillaudeu to a chair, and Guillaudeu now saw one of the Lyceum men guiding a woman toward the podium.
“Sadly, Kipp passed on several years ago, but his daughter has become something of a champion for his work here as well as in Britain.”
The woman waited for the voices of her audience to subside. She appeared to be examining the men in the audience very closely. Her face brought to Guillaudeu’s mind the sound of gulls and the taste of a sour dinner roll.
“My name is Lilian Kipp,” she said crisply. “As some of you know, I have been in America for several months, presenting the work of my father, Professor Quincy Kipp. I am grateful for the opportunity to address members of your Lyceum, especially on an evening as lovely as this.”
His eyes going wide, he remembered the landing at Spuyten Duyvil. This was the woman who’d bought his volume of Linnaeus. He shrank in his chair.
“My father traveled the globe in the service of the British government. It may surprise some of you that as a youth his interest was chiefly in the fine arts, sculpture in particular. Before anything else, he was an artist. It is not my intention to give his entire biography to you tonight, nor to chronicle his personal journey from art to science, but let me just say that in nature my father saw an artistic genius more perfect than Michelangelo. He saw geometry more impressive than that of the Greeks. In nature’s mysteries he found lessons comparable in number and meaning to those contained in any holy book. It was his belief that cataloging and organizing nature was not enough for a thoughtful mind to accomplish. Serious contemplation of these subjects is evident in his work. Philosophical thought. But more than anything else there is compassion. A human soul reaching for a personal relationship with the spectrum of nature.”
Miss Kipp had clenched one of her small fists. She spoke with fervent conviction. Her bearing evoked a feeling of solidity, of squareness and exact alignment. Guillaudeu was rapt, simultaneously wanting her to recognize him and also wanting to run away.
“His work is intimately connected with poetry, it’s true. Some have argued that there is no place for this kind of work in the annals of science. But I believe the boundary between these disciplines is malleable. That a healthy line of inquiry can contain threads of poetry braided to the filaments of natural philosophy. We need only to look to examples like Erasmus Darwin and Leonardo da Vinci to see the precedent for this mode.
“I have brought several of my father’s notebooks with me tonight, which will be displayed on these tables following my presentation. It is my hope that you will find much of interest and enjoyment in these pages. I have also published a volume of his writings and drawings, which will be for sale. At this time, I would now like to read to you from one of these volumes, entitled Quincy Kipp’s Epistemonicon: Toward a New Understanding of Beasts and Men.”
Lilian Kipp obscured her face by raising an open book in front of it. Her voice was clear and strong.
“Bradypus tridactylus, the three-toed sloth, rarely comes down from its tree. With its disproportionately long limbs, a sloth on the ground cannot even support its own body weight, and this predicament reduces the creature to an embarrassing, spread-eagled grope.
“Safely aloft, however, the sloth maintains its lifestyle of nineteen hours asleep followed by five hours of mild wakefulness, the highlights of which include twig-eating and prolonged gazing. The sloth lives its ten-year life span in this way, high in the crooks of trumpet trees. It does not hunt or utter a single sound. It is nonterritorial and cannot fight. Eventually, we must ask: What is the sloth for?
“It’s no surprise if you can’t picture the face of a sloth. Its closest relative is the armadillo, but what help is that? The sloth has no first cousin and is solitary by nature. It may appear to be an evolutionary orphan, but before we find ourselves weeping in sympathy, notice the greenish hue of the sloth’s unusually long, coarse coat. Its fur was made with a certain aptitude for attracting algae, and there it grows, especially during rainy seasons. Along with this primeval colony, the sloth’s coat harbors moths and beetles that live off the algae. The sloth is even known to lick its own fur to get a taste of it, perhaps at those times when pulling a leaf is too much bother. And so, if we take the time, we see the sloth is not alone at all.
“Bradypus tridactylus is endowed with three hollow claws on the ends of each of its limbs. By hooking securely around slim branches, the curved claws allow the sloth to hang comfortably in its natural position: upside down. If you happen to see a sloth hanging this way, you might notice an unusual fact. While the coats of other longhaired animals fall down their sides from a sort of middle part along the spine, the sloth enjoys a part on its belly, with its long hair hanging with gravity toward its back. The sloth is so well adapted to this position in the world that it even gives birth and sleeps while firmly attached by its claws, a living hammock.
“If you’re trying to make sense of the sloth, simply look beyond the bias of its name. Could it be this animal is simply more aligned with its dream world? That it climbs high into the canopy because, to its sensibility, the earth is distracting, if not irrelevant? Perhaps the sloth is a deft navigator of its own soul and, if it ever decided to speak, would answer all of our questions in a soft somniloquy.”
Lilian Kipp spoke for three-quarters of an hour, and when she had finished, the members of the Lyceum followed her to the display tables where she had laid out her father’s notebooks. Guillaudeu waited until she had extricated herself from the first group of men who accosted her before he approached.
“I believe we almost met,” Guillaudeu offered. He felt strangely elated. “At Spuyten Duyvil.”
Lilian Kipp cocked her head, her forehead creasing. Then she gasped. “Linnaeus?”
Guillaudeu made an exaggerated bow. “I hope you enjoyed it.”
“I have. Although I wondered over the inscription. This Edie person really wanted you to have the book. I felt awful after I bought it from you. In fact, I looked for you on the ferry. To give it back. I’m sure Edie would want you to keep it.”
“Edie and I … are no longer close. You probably didn’t see me on the Hudson because I was outside on deck for the whole voyage.”
She laughed, showing her small white teeth, straight on the top row and crooked on the bottom.
“Well, here we are, in an entirely new place and time. I see that you’ve another set of clothes after all.”
“I’d been traveling on foot for some time when we met.” Guillaudeu made a formal introduction of himself.
“Barnum’s museum!” Lilian Kipp laughed. “My favorite place on the whole island of New York. I’ve written to all my friends in London, telling them it is worth the voyage just to see it. I’ve been at least six times. More!”
Guillaudeu was taken aback. “More?”
“My favorite is the sewing dog!”
“Cornelia? Really?”
“Among the popular displays. The diorama showing Vesuvius’ eruption is also impressive. What’s your favorite?”
Guillaudeu had never considered such a thing. “My work is taxidermy.”
“But among Barnum’s hoaxes? His exhibits, his so-called Representatives of the Wonderful?”
“I don’t usually pay them any attention.”
“How is that possible? Don’t you walk among them every day?”
Guillaudeu was afraid Lilian Kipp was about to dismiss him as a terrible bore. Several men were circling their way closer to her, clearly hoping to catch her attention for a question or two.
“There is one exhibit I’ve grown very fond of, although you haven’t seen it.”
“Oh, I’m sure I have. I’ve explored every salon and gallery in that building. I’m quite sure.”
“No, I’m certain there’s one you haven’t seen. It’s quite intriguing. In fact” — Guillaudeu leaned closer to Lilian Kipp and felt something of Barnum in his words — “it’s a bit of a secret; I cannot speak of it publicly.”
“Oh?” Lilian Kipp leaned closer, and Guillaudeu smelled licorice. “There is a region of Barnum’s labyrinth I haven’t discovered?”
“Yes. I don’t know how long it will remain a secret, though. Perhaps you’d like to see it?” As he spoke he was aware only that it was a simple invitation that she accepted just as the circling Lyceum members closed in and swept her away from him. After he had found Dr. Putnam and made arrangements for him to visit the new aviary the following morning, Guillaudeu emerged into the full dark of the street. He noticed the particularly deep blueness of the sky. He felt his spirit scooped up into that blue, and for a moment he imagined himself aloft, his ankle tethered by a rope to the lamppost to keep him from drifting into the atmosphere.