Read Among the Wonderful Online
Authors: Stacy Carlson
“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.
“But what is a bird without a tree?” posed Dr. Putnam, standing a few paces from Guillaudeu at the center of the gallery. “My single suggestion for this aviary is foliation, my good man.
Foliation!”
Dr. Putnam rotated on his heel, his eyes searching out the shadowy forms of birds along the aviary’s moldings. His round, blunt face and bony elbows resembled the mantis
Tenodera sinensis
.
“Improve this habitat by bringing in more potted trees. Install a section of tall grasses, some flowering shrubbery! And certainly more pedestal drinking pools. It would be a dire injustice for these animals to be deprived of the leaves and grass to which they are accustomed. Dire.” The ornithologist’s fervency was a bit disconcerting.
“As I’m sure you know, these birds have been living in a state of anxiety since the moment of their capture. Just behold that pair of evening grosbeaks. When does one ever see evening grosbeaks so still? To endow them with trees is a necessary service. If I were you, I would even paint the walls. In the form of trees, perhaps, or even simply the color green. The birds won’t be bothered by the paint and afterward they will feel much more comfortable.”
Guillaudeu scrawled Dr. Putnam’s recommendations in a small notebook. The room was not entirely devoid of foliage: a few saplings leaned in heavy urns, and someone had provided bundles of branches, some quite large, and attached
them by rope to the ceiling. Each of these makeshift perches, as well as the window moldings and ornamental woodwork, swarmed with birds.
“And as to the species, Dr. Putnam, what do you recognize? I was left no notations, no indication of what type of birds are here.”
Dr. Putnam shook his head sadly. “Most distressing. I would like to speak with Barnum about this. He seems to have very little compassion for his avian comrades.”
“I suspect he hasn’t given these comrades much thought at all.”
Dr. Putnam removed a pair of tiny brass binoculars from his jacket pocket and raised them to his eyes. “It is admirable that you are improving this situation,” he remarked as he scanned the room. “You will strengthen the impact of the birds on museum visitors. Ah! Someone has brought you a horned lark! And it even looks like the western variety. And its mate, good. Aviaries are wonderful places. Just think: Is there anyone who would not get a thrill to have one of these cardinals fly close overhead, from one branch to another? Just imagine a mother pointing out a monk parakeet in the process of nest-building to her child. The true question in my mind is this: What is the world without birds?”
“I am grateful for your help!” blurted Guillaudeu. “I am grateful. I am new to this whole business.”
“Birds are a wonderful business!” Dr. Putnam chuckled. “And we aviphiles are not a cutthroat bunch. Call on me whenever you wish. What in the world is a purple gallinule doing here? It appears to be without a mate, unfortunately. You will need to build a small pond or pseudo-marsh for it. And a wood thrush! Oh, how lucky you are! What a voice on that little fellow. And it looks like … wait, I can’t see” — Dr. Putnam swung wildly, following the darting glides of a small bird high above them — “yes, cliff swallows! Gorgeous! Unbelievable that they are here! And already building nests! Up there where the wall meets the ceiling. Where are they getting mud for that? Wonderful, just wonderful.”
Dr. Putnam watched the birds for several more minutes,
swinging his binoculars to and fro. As Guillaudeu escorted him toward the burlap curtain that hung in front of the door, the ornithologist paused.
“I am so glad Miss Scudder recommended you to join us at the Lyceum. Sometimes we members can become somewhat insular. It is refreshing to draw in new perspectives.”
“Edie?”
Dr. Putnam was puzzled by the expression on Guillaudeu’s face. “Why, haven’t you spoken with her? She sent such a beautiful nomination letter, co-written by her father. Usually, you know, the process for inaugurating new members is more scientific. But since the Scudders are so dear to us, and she was so fervent, there was a unanimous vote. And if you must know, the Lyceum’s coffers are quite empty at the moment, so all new memberships do help.”
Something caught Dr. Putnam’s eye. “Oh heavens, oh no!” He gasped and dropped the binoculars from his eyes. “A shrike!”
“A shrike?” Guillaudeu repeated stupidly. His head pulsed with shame. Edie?
“It seemed as though all was well with your birds, but here’s a shrike, a notorious cannibal of the smaller songbirds. You must capture it at once and remove it to its own cage. At once! Where did they get a shrike, of all the birds out there in the world!”
Guillaudeu was not sure how he would go about capturing a shrike, but he certainly wouldn’t attempt it in the company of Dr. Putnam. He assured the other man he would isolate the bird, thanked him for his recommendations, and escorted him from the aviary. When the ornithologist had gone, Guillaudeu grabbed his coat and pushed his way against the crowd at the museum’s entrance. He launched himself onto Broadway, where a light rain misted his skin. Too impatient to wait for an omnibus, he crossed Broadway and started south, signaling the first cabriolet he saw. Its two black mares carried him swiftly to the Front Street port. He bounded up the stairs to Edie’s office and found it empty, the door ajar.