Originally, the animated painting was of tame aristocratic conception. It showed a castle from which columns of simulated smoke moved skyward. A windmill turned in the background. Two children played with a ball, while a carriage and escott rolled around the semicircular path. A postilion cracked his whip. A stream in the foreground was produced by an infinity of twisted glass.
The prospect of repair excited Claude. Here was an object that merged movement and image, that captured the motions of work and play, water and wind. For two weeks, when he was not finishing more commonplace orders, Claude picked apart the mechanism of the animated painting and repainted the surface designs to satisfy the bookseller's pornographic imperatives. (Only the whip remained from the original design.) Claude did such a good job that the Abbe looked for some way to reward the accomplishment.
Reward was nothing new, of course. The Abbe was, by nature, a man prone to demonstrations of gratitude. Over the course of Claude's mechanical development, he had given him tools from the chapel room and ordered others from abroad: rough files from a foundry town in Germany, a set of punches from Paris, two exquisite soldering dishes from a toolmaker whose name is no longer legible. The restoration of the animated painting required something more, something special.
The Abbe at last hit upon an idea. "A watchmaker values nothing more than time, Claude, so I would like to give you time for time's sake." He insisted that all the following week Claude spend his days constructing an object of his own design made solely to satisfy his own desires. After much fretting, Claude produced, in a burst of nocturnal manufacture, a writing tool that he could attach to the gap on his right hand. It was far more elegant than its prosthetic precursors. The only one chat approached it was the iron hand of Gotz so praised by Goethe. Yet while the Swabian knight had an iron, flat-spring ringer joint connected to a large ratchet-and-pawl, Claude's cog system reduced the scale and added a suction cup to increase flexibility. Also, he fashioned an ink reservoir that allowed him to write for many hours without refilling.
The first phrase Claude wrote down with the finger pen was an observation repeated often by the Abbe: "Remember what I have said. We must all choose our own metaphors. Mine is the nautilus. Your metaphor is that golden clamshell we call the watch."
14
When IT CAME to visitors, not much distressed the Abbe. He entertained philosophers and faunists, herbalists and bakers without prejudice, enduring peculiarity for the sake of his work. If, say, one of the Rochats arrived with a snake that released a foul smell, the Abbe would light a perfume burner, hold a handkerchief to his nose, and talk through the night about the virtues of venom. If a woman rumored to be a witch would tell her secrets only in complete darkness, then it was complete darkness the Abbe would provide. And if research required visiting a barn in which a child rubbed its runny nose against the Abbe's freshly washed stockings, he would smile and overlook the unwanted intimacy. It took something altogether different to unsettle Jean-Baptiste-Pierre-Robert Auget, Abbe, Chevalier of the Royal Order of Elephants, Count of Tournay.
That something was Lucien Livre.
Livre was probably the most important, if least engaging, of the Abbe's correspondents. He served as the sole Paris agent for the Hours of Love. Though by training a publisher, Livre was, more exactly, a pornographer in all that pornography entailed. He matched wealthy patrons to costly vulgarities: books, watches, and other items of licentious design. He was neither impressively tall nor impressively short, and his clothes, while old-fashioned and topped by an oversized wig, were also unworthy of mention. Livre's character, not his clothing, was what one remembered. He was a nasty but intelligent man who existed in a state of petpetual dissatisfaction. He saw insincerity in all gestures and conspiracy in every act of kindness.
At first, the Abbe attributed Livre's moodiness to the same humoral imbalance that had debilitated Rufus of Ephesus, Alexander of Tralles, and the Persian Avicenna. But he was soon forced to changed his diagnosis from melancholy to meanness. Then, when he heard the bookseller spit, he changed the diagnosis yet again, and called him the Phlegmagogue. The name served to describe both Livre's absolute absence of enthusiasm and the distressing manner in which he was forever clearing his throat.
The two men had first met many years earlier, in Paris, soon after the Abbe left the protection of the Church. They had collaborated on a book the Abbe annotated and Livre printed. It was published discreetly and died an all-too-discreet death. The Abbe never discussed the nature of the work. "In time," he told Claude once, "I will give you a copy. You will find it confusing."
Livre and the Abbe suspended communication for more than twenty years, until the Abbe's trade in pornographic mechanics necessitated the steady flow of erotic materials the bookseller was able to provide. In exchange for the pictures and texts, Livre received a certain number of finished pieces. With these, he insinuated himself into social situations that would otherwise have been closed to him.
They shared a number of interests, but that is not surprising, given the variety of the Abbe's endeavors. Both men loved books, though differently. Both men investigated the nature of water, though Livre to more specific ends. Both disdained the Church, though with Livre it was just an extension of a disdain for the world at large.
Livre's pessimism, however, was incompatible with the simple joy the Abbe took in asking complex questions. The bookseller scoffed at the Abbe's adage, "Without questions there are no solutions." Other incompatibilities are worth noting. The Abbe pursued things in a fragmentary — he might have called it rhapsodic — fashion, appending thoughts without any dependence of one part upon another. Livre liked his world, and his words, precisely defined and properly arranged. Proof of this precision came in the letter that anticipated a stop at the mansion house. Livre divided his letter into three parts.
The first part bore the title, "Date of Arrival." Livre was to reach the mansion house three weeks after the conclusion of the Frankfurt book fair. The trip could have been done more quickly, but his chronic dyspepsia required a detour. Each year he went to a different spa—including Spa—to fight his gastric demons. This year he would take a rejuvenating cure in the waters of the Lower Seltzer.
The second part began, "Purpose of Stay." Most of the business between the bookstore and mansion house was conducted by Livre's cousin Etiennette and the Abbe's accountant. But with the increased demand for Claude's animated watches, Livre decided to triangulate his return and stop in Tournay. He carried with him a new commission and proposals for more lucrative schemes. The Abbe's indebtedness was so substantial that Livre felt comfortable imposing. He assumed, rightly, that he would receive free and attentive hospitality. The specifics as to what constituted attentive hospitality made up the longest section of Livre's letter.
And the final section of Livre's communication bore the legend, "Requirements during Stay." The particulars filled more than two tightly written foolscap pages and forced the residents of the mansion house to alter their habits dramatically. Meals at Tournay were, in normal circumstances, taken casually and at irregular intervals. When research required extended observation, a supper might be forgotten until Marie-Louise arrived with a cut of cold meat, a hunch of bread, and some wine. For Livre, such irregularity was unacceptable. As the letter instructed, meals were to be ready at two in the afternoon and at eight in the evening. "My stomach," he wrote, "necessitates a routine and menu that will not, I assume, be difficult to arrange."
On the day that Livre's stomach (and the rest of the finicky bookseller) reached the mansion house, the Abbe and all who served him had done their best to prepare. The big test came at the first supper, since most of the bookseller's instructions involved the preparation of food.
Marie-Louise acquitted herself admirably. She covered the brandy-cask table with a fine piece of valley lacework. The books, manuscripts, and shells that littered the room were cleared away, hidden in the depths of the coffin-confessional, behind the color-cove curtain
, and anywhere else the bookseller was unlikely to look. Where a cruet filled with Cellini's urinous mixture had rested five hours earlier, a crystal decanter, filled with the Abbe's finest stream water, now glistened. (The Tokay would be poured after the meal.) A flat file that normally served double duty on metal and nutmeg was replaced by a silver grater and other pieces of specialized tableware.
Claude and Henri, Catherine and Kleinhoff joined the Abbe and Livre. The Abbe chose to embrace an English tradition that allowed for the free communion of assistants and their master during meals. The assistants sensed, however, that this visitor would not want such "free communion" to include speech. So they suspended conversation before sitting down to eat. (For Henri, Kleinhoff, and Claude, this was no problem. Catherine had a much harder time keeping quiet.) That left it to the Abbe and Livre to fill the silence. Each retreated into his own concerns. The Abbe talked about his travels as a missionary, the bookseller about the elegance of his Paris shop. The Abbe told a lengthy story about his search for a gum arabic on the Greek island of Lemnos. "Pliny praised it, but I found the stuff was no good."
Livre parried with a quotation from the author himself. "I imagine you banished Pliny to your own little Anticyra."
"Oh yes, Anticyra." The Abbe hadn't the slightest idea as to what the bookseller was referring. The conversation deteriorated until it was more discourse than dialogue. Each one talked to no one but himself. The awkwardness was finally diminished with the arrival of the food. When the mantel clock struck eight, Marie-Louise began the procession of steaming pots and platters. Only after Livre had inspected his timekeeper did he seem satisfied that his schedule was being followed. He magnanimously offered a little smile to the rest of the table. The smile left as quickly as it came. Livre observed Marie-Louise ladle some pea soup from a silver tureen.
"I am not allowed pea soup," he said.
Marie-Louise bravely continued to lift covers, revealing haricots, artichokes, and a grilled chicken in a mushroom sauce, She left briefly and returned with some warm white bread that powdered the hands. Claude loved Marie-Louise's bread.
Livre shook his head in despair. The food, all of it, was wasted on him. He said, "I am sure I mentioned in my letter, for I make mention of it wherever I travel, that all I require is four well-cooked turnips. The rest of this fare is incompatible with my gastric condition." Livre spat into his handkerchief.
Marie-Louise retreated in a huff. She emerged a few moments later with the turnips he had requested, which she had boiled, but which she could not bear to serve. When the turnips reached the table, Livre indicated additional displeasure. "Undercooked. I can tell without even tasting. Take them away and cook them thoroughly."
"They have been on the fire all afternoon," the cook said.
"Using a Papin's Digester, as I specified?"
"No," the Abbe apologized. "We had to make do with a Genevan pressure cooker."
Marie-Louise again left, but not before rolling her eyes. While the turnips cooked, the two men once more attempted to converse.
The Abbe started. "Claude, bring me the Battie we were transcribing."
Claude excused himself and came back, after much rummaging, with a book. As the Abbe started reading, Livre indicated a new, nondietary distress.
"What have you done to that book?"
As with many of his favorite volumes, the Abbe had carved two disks and a connecting arch out of the inside cover to accommodate a pair of spectacles. The bookseller shuddered at the sight of the damaged volume.
"That was a full-grain morocco you destroyed." His tone was censorious.
"I need to have my spectacles to read. Without them, the book would remain unread, and a book unread is like cathedral glass that hides its beauty from all who do not enter." The Abbe allowed himself this religious metaphor, since in matters of learning he was quite devout.
"Nonsense," Livre said. "Books are bought less to be read than to be owned. You forget that I am an agent of their distribution. There is nothing finer than an old, perfectly preserved book. Read or unread doesn't much matter.''
The Abbe defended his position. "It is you who are speaking nonsense. The highest praise for a book is i( it has been cracked through renewed contemplation. Let it have scribbles and scrawls in its margins. Let its corners be dog-eared. Let the binding be cracked." The Abbe held up the battered Battie.
"I find such an attitude intolerable. I would rather see a child's spine break. And as for finding a book postiled in the margins, that is worse than branding the flesh of a virgin."
"You have been reading too many of your philosophical," the Abbe said.
The situation worsened when, in the middle of the verbal skirmish, the Abbe inadvertently struck the tureen. Pea soup channeled past a sauceboat and saltcellar, and hit the Abbe's freshly ironed cuff. From there, it found its way to the book in question.
The Phlegmagogue rolled his phlegm in disbelief.
The Abbe wiped the soup from the page. He was determined to read, if for no other reason than to alleviate the tension. "I came across a passage in Battie that I think is an apt description of our goals. Where is it? Ah yes, here. It's too lengthy to read in full, so I will summarize. The author concludes that we are part of a community of philosophers who spend our days and nights in unwearied endeavors without closing our eyes. We attempt to reconcile metaphysical contradictions, to discover the Longitude (well, we've done that) or the Grand Secret (we're close to that one, too) and, by excessive attention of body, strain every animal fiber. What is so distressing is that Battie is describing the obsessions of the insane, of those who can be said to have cracked their brains by filling them with chimerical visions. I wonder if we are part of that company of infirm and shattered philosophers to whom he refers."
"You say the author's name is Battie?"
"Yes. An Englishman and an expert in insanity."
"Ah." Livre's interest grew. "Appropriate. Another confirmation of the force of one's family name."
"Eh?"
"Name is destiny, my friend. I study the subject. I know. You would be astonished by the number of people whose occupations are revealed in their names."
"There are others besides Battie?"
"Hundreds. I am gathering up a list for publication. My most recent discovery is Descartes."
"Did you find he was a cardplayer?"
"No. That would be too obvious. But he did represent his geometrical considerations on playing cards. I have, in fact, seen des cartes de Descartes." In most contexts, this observation would have been taken as a bad pun and nothing more, but for Livre it was a small part of a large theory.
"Surely, that is just a coincidence, nothing more than happenstance," the Abbe said.
"No, I must insist that name is destiny. I will show you. What's his name?" The bookseller pointed at Claude, who was startled by his unexpected inclusion in the conversation.
The Abbe answered, "Claude Page."
Livre considered for a moment. "Do you like books, Page?" Claude nodded. "Of course he does. Proves my point. The boy should be in my care, not yours. What's a bookseller without pages?"
"Yes," the Abbe allowed, "he may indeed like books, but I must inform you that he is destined for other things. Claude is the fellow who makes the Hours. This young man already demonstrates a genius, a talent . . ."
Livre interrupted. He had lost his patience and could feel his stomach grumbling. He picked on the Abbe's choice of words. "Though I do not wish to quibble," he quibbled, "I must say that the qualities you equate are very different, my dear friend. Very different. Talent qualifies one for some peculiar employment. It is a commonplace manifestation of external capability of execution. Genius is a rare gift, the possession of the powers of invention. Thus, we have a genius for poetry and painting; but a talent for speaking and writing. Those who have a talent for watchmaking may not have a genius for mechanics."
"I have not followed everything you just said, but regarding the genius for m
echanics, this fellow has it, as well as the talent for watchmaking. You need only considet the animated painting he fixed for you to see that he btidges your distinctions. Talent and genius were twinborn in him. He will some day be known for both. And while we are playing with the meaning of words, I might add that Claude's genius links him to the genii of Muhammedan lore." He gave Claude a wink.
Claude was wise enough to keep quiet. This was the first time the Abbe had expressed publicly his pride for his recent efforts in the mechanical arts. And while some of the praise might have been provoked by the pedantry of the bookseller, it was praise Claude was ready to accept.
Conversation stopped. Livre withdrew a writing kit and booklet, a handsome, thin-ruled leather octavo with interlocking L's embossed on the cover, and noted the reference to Battie and his Treatise on Madness (London, 1758, two shillings and sixpence). He was so angry that he allowed the ink to run. He spat in disgust. A blemish in the booklet was an intolerable offense. He pulled out a perforator, a modified engraver's roulette. He ran the wheel of the instrument up and down the margin to excise the offending page and rewrote the citation, all the while making disgusting sounds—sounds Claude thought could be replicated by a rasp file brought against a piece of wood. Claude pulled out the S-roll to register the homophony before it would be forgotten.
"What is it that you are noting down?" the bookseller asked.
"I study sounds," Claude said, with as much humility as he could muster. "The Abbe has a wonderful sneeze, and you . . ." He did not know how to finish the comment without appearing impertinent, so he didn't finish it at all. Fortunately, the tension was alleviated by the arrival of the turnips. Livre mashed them with the tines of his fork and sniffed around his plate. He took a taste and, after making a few more burbling sounds, nodded with reluctant approval.
Supper was interminable, as were the gastric rumblings. Everyone at the table watched as the guest of honor chomped. The Abbe inspected the grooves left in the tender base of the artichokes' scaly impalements and wondered aloud if he should study the diversity of human dentition. Claude was curious to know what commissions Livre had brought, but he kept his curiosity to himself.
A case of curiosities Page 11