The Signature of All Things

by Elizabeth Gilbert

  They were quiet again.

  After a while, Alma smiled. “I’ve always wondered what Mr. Darwin thought of that idea of yours—about our minds being excluded from the laws of evolution, and about a supreme intelligence guiding the universe.”

  Wallace smiled, too. “He did not approve.”

  “I should think not!”

  “Oh, he did not like it at all, Miss Whittaker. He was appalled whenever I brought it up. He could not believe—after all our battles together—that I was bringing God back into the conversation!’”

  “And what would you say?”

  “I tried to explain to him that I had never mentioned the word God. He was the one who used the word. The only thing I’d said was that a supreme intelligence exists in the universe, and that it longs for union with us. I believe in the world of spirits, Miss Whittaker, but I would never bring the word God into a scientific discussion. After all, I am a strict atheist.”

  “Of course you are, my dear,” she said, patting his hand again. She was so enjoying patting his hand. She was enjoying every moment of this.

  “You think me naive,” Wallace said.

  “I think you marvelous,” Alma corrected. “I think you are the most marvelous person I have ever met, who is still alive. You make me feel glad that I am still here, to meet somebody like you.”

  “Well, you are not alone in this world, Miss Whittaker, even if you have outlived everyone. I believe that we are surrounded by a host of unseen friends and loved ones, now passed away, who exert an influence upon our lives, and who never abandon us.”

  “That’s a lovely notion,” said Alma, and she patted his hand once more.

  “Have you ever been to a séance, Miss Whittaker? I could take you to one. You could speak to your husband, across the divide.”

  Alma thought over the offer. She remembered the night in the binding closet with Ambrose, when they had spoken to each other through the palms of their hands: her one experience with the mystical and the ineffable. She still didn’t know what that had been, really. She still wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t imagined it all, in a fit of love and desire. Alternatively, she sometimes wondered if Ambrose truly had been a magical being—perhaps some evolutionary mutation in his own right, simply born under the wrong circumstances, or at the wrong moment in history. Perhaps there would never be another one like him. Perhaps he had been a failed experiment himself.

  Whatever he had been, though, it had not ended well.

  “I must say, Mr. Wallace,” she replied, “you are most kind to invite me to a séance, but I think I shall not do that. I have had a small bit of experience with silent communication, and I know that just because people can hear each other across the divide does not mean they can necessarily understand each other.”

  He laughed. “Well, if you should ever change your mind, please do send word.”

  “You may be sure I shall. But it is far more likely, Mr. Wallace, that you will be sending word to me, after I am dead, during one of your spiritualist meetings! You should not have to wait long for such a chance, for soon I will be gone.”

  “You will never be gone. The spirit merely lives inside the body, Miss Whittaker. Death only separates that duality.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wallace. You say the kindest things. But you needn’t comfort me. I am too old to fear the great changes of life.”

  “Do you know, Miss Whittaker—here I am, expounding upon all my theories, but I have not paused to ask you, a wise woman, what you believe.”

  “What I believe is not, perhaps, as exciting as what you believe.”

  “Nonetheless, I would like to hear it.”

  Alma sighed. This was quite a question. What did she believe?

  “I believe that we are all transient,” she began. She thought for a while and added, “I believe that we are half-blind and full of errors. I believe that we understand very little, and what we do understand is mostly wrong. I believe that life cannot be survived—that is evident!—but if one is lucky, life can be endured for quite a long while. If one is both lucky and stubborn, life can sometimes even be enjoyed.”

  “Do you believe in an afterworld?” Wallace asked.

  She patted his hand once again. “Oh, Mr. Wallace, I do so try not to say things that make people feel upset.”

  He laughed again. “I am not as delicate as you may think, Miss Whittaker. You may tell me what you believe.”

  “Well, if you must know, I believe that most people are quite fragile. I believe that it must have been a dreadful blow to man’s opinion of himself when Galileo announced that we do not reside at the center of the universe—just as it was a blow to the world when Darwin announced that we were not specially crafted by God in one miraculous moment. I believe these things are difficult for most people to hear. I believe it makes people feel insignificant. Saying that, I do wonder, Mr. Wallace, if your longing for the spirit world and an afterworld is not just a symptom of a continued human quest to feel . . . significant? Forgive me, I do not mean to insult you. The man whom I dearly loved had this same need as you, this same quest—to commune with some mysterious divinity, to transcend his body and this world, and to remain significant in a better realm. I found him to be a lonely person, Mr. Wallace. Beautiful, but lonely. I do not know if you are lonely, but it makes me wonder.”

  He did not answer that.

  After a moment, he merely asked, “And don’t you have that need, Miss Whittaker? To feel significant?”

  “I will tell you something, Mr. Wallace. I think I have been the most fortunate woman who ever lived. My heart has been broken, certainly, and most of my wishes did not come true. I have disappointed myself in my own behavior, and others have disappointed me. I have outlived nearly everyone I ever loved. Remaining alive to me in this world is but one sister, whom I have not seen for more than thirty years—and with whom I was not intimate, for most of my life. I have not had an illustrious career. I had one original idea in my life—and it happened to be an important idea, one that might have given me a chance to be known—but I hesitated to put it forth, and thus I missed my opportunity. I have no husband. I have no heirs. I once had a fortune, but I gave it away. My eyes are deserting me, and my lungs and legs give me much trouble. I do not think I will live to see another spring. I will die across the ocean from where I was born, and I will be buried here, far away from my parents and my sister. Surely you are asking yourself by now—why does this miserably unlucky woman call herself fortunate?”

  He said nothing. He was too kind to reply to such a question.

  “Do not worry, Mr. Wallace. I am not being facetious with you. I do truly believe I am fortunate. I am fortunate because I have been able to spend my life in study of the world. As such, I have never felt insignificant. This life is a mystery, yes, and it is often a trial, but if one can find some facts within it, one should always do so—for knowledge is the most precious of all commodities.”

  When he still did not reply, Alma went on:

  “You see, I have never felt the need to invent a world beyond this world, for this world has always seemed large and beautiful enough for me. I have wondered why it is not large and beautiful enough for others—why they must dream up new and marvelous spheres, or long to live elsewhere, beyond this dominion . . . but that is not my business. We are all different, I suppose. All I ever wanted was to know this world. I can say now, as I reach my end, that I know quite a bit more of it than I knew when I arrived. Moreover, my little bit of knowledge has been added to all the other accumulated knowledge of history—added to the great library, as it were. That is no small feat, sir. Anyone who can say such a thing has lived a fortunate life.”

  Now it was he who patted her hand.

  “Very well put, Miss Whittaker,” he said.

  “Indeed, Mr. Wallace,” she said.

  * * *

  After this, it seemed their conversation was over. They were both pensive and tired. Alma returned her manuscript to Ambrose’
s valise, slid the case under the divan, and locked her office door. She would never again show it to anyone else. Wallace helped her down the stairs. Outside it was dark and foggy. They walked slowly together back to the van Devender residence, two doors down. She let him in, and they stood in the hallway and said their good-nights. Wallace would be leaving the next morning, and they would not see each other again after that.

  “I am so very glad you came,” she told him.

  “I am so very glad you summoned me,” he said.

  She reached up and touched his face. He allowed her. She explored his warm features. He had a kind face—she could feel that he did.

  After that, he went upstairs to his room, but Alma waited in the hallway. She did not wish to go to sleep. When she heard his door close, she took up her cane and shawl again and returned outside. It was dark, but that did not matter to Alma anymore; she could scarcely even see in the daylight, and she knew her surroundings so well by feel. She found the back gate to the Hortus—the private gate that the van Devenders had used for three centuries now—and she let herself in to the gardens.

  Her intention had been to return to the Cave of Mosses and contemplate matters for a while, but she soon grew short of breath, so she rested a spell, leaning against the nearest tree. My goodness, but she was old! How quickly it had happened! She was thankful for the tree beside her. She was thankful for the gardens, in their dark beauty. She was thankful for a quiet spot in which to rest. She remembered what poor little mad Retta Snow used to say: “Thank heavens we have an earth, or where would we sit?” Alma was feeling a bit dizzy. What a night this had been!

  There were three of us, he had said.

  Indeed, there had been three of them, and now there were only two. Soon, there would be only one. Then Wallace, too, would be gone. But for now, at least, he was aware of her. She was known. Alma pressed her face against the tree, and marveled at it all—at the speed of things, at the amazing confluences.

  A person cannot marvel in dumbstruck amazement forever, though, and after a while Alma found herself wondering what tree this was, exactly. She was familiar with every tree in the Hortus, but she had lost track of where she was standing, and so she did not remember. It smelled familiar. She stroked its bark, and then she knew—of course, it was the shellbark hickory, the only one of its kind in all of Amsterdam. Juglandaceae. The walnut family. This particular specimen had come from America well over one hundred years earlier, probably from western Pennsylvania. Difficult to transplant, because of its long taproot. Must have come as a tiny sapling. A bottomland grower, it was. Fond of loam and silt; friend to quail and fox; resistant to ice; susceptible to rot. It was old. She was old.

  Lines of evidence were converging upon Alma—lines from every direction—driving her toward her final, formidable conclusion: soon, exceedingly soon, her time would come. She knew this to be true. Maybe not tonight, but some night soon. She was not afraid of death, in theory. If anything, she had nothing but respect and reverence for the Genius of Death, who had shaped this world more than any other force. That said, she did not wish to die quite this moment. She still wanted to see what would happen next, as much as ever. The thing was to resist submersion for as long as possible.

  She clutched the great tree as if it were a horse. She pressed her cheek against its silent, living flank.

  She said, “You and I are very far from home, aren’t we?”

  In the dark gardens, in the middle of the quiet city night, the tree did not reply.

  But it did hold her up just a little while longer.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For their assistance and inspiration, the author wishes to thank: the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew; the New York Botanical Garden; the Hortus Botanicus Amsterdam; Bartram’s Garden; the Woodlands; Liberty Hall Museum; and Esalen; also Margaret Cordi, Anne Connell, Shea Hembrey, Rayya Elias, Mary Bly, Linda Shankara Barrera, Tony Freund, Barbara Paca, Joel Fry, Marie Long, Stephen Sinon, Mia D’Avanza, Courtney Allen, Adam Skolnick, Celeste Brash, Roy Withers, Linda Tumarae, Cree LeFavour, Jonny Miles, Ernie Sesskin, Brian Foster, Sheryl Moller, Deborah Luepnitz, Ann Patchett, Eileen Marolla, Karen Lessig, Michael and Sandra Flood, Tom and Deann Higgins, Jeannette Tynan, Jim Novak, Jim and Dave Cahill, Bill Burdin, Ernie Marshall, Sarah Chalfant, Charles Buchan, Paul Slovak, Lindsay Prevette, Miriam Feuerle, Alexandra Pringle, Katie Bond, Terry and Deborah Olson, Catherine Gilbert Murdock, John and Carole Gilbert, José Nunes, the late Stanley Gilbert, and the late Sheldon Potter. Special recognition is due to Dr. Robin Wall-Kimmerer (the original gatherer of mosses) and, indeed, to all women of science throughout history.

  Rest assured, dear friend, that many noteworthy and great sciences and arts have been discovered through the understanding and subtlety of women, both in cognitive speculation, demonstrated in writing, and in the arts, manifested in manual works of labor. I will give you plenty of examples.

  Christine de Pizan,

  The Book of the City of Ladies

  1405