by James Morrow
“Believe it or not, the origin of the animal races is my passion as well,” said Chloe. “Summer will find me in Galápagos, an archipelago reportedly tenanted with species that boast distinct identities even as they evoke the fauna of Ecuador and Peru.”
“Miss Bathurst, you are a woman after my own heart—or I should say, head, for we have trained our intellects on the same conundrum. Were I more solvent, I would now invite you and your companions to lunch. My London agent fetches a good price for my treasures, but after he deducts his percentage my profits are meager.”
“Good sir, you must allow us to entertain you instead,” said Chloe.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Wallace’s Indians having nailed the crate shut and begun filling a second such container with specimens, everyone sat down to cowfish stew, roasted plantains, sweetmeats, and sangria in the Jacaré Vermelho, a dockside café crowded with cigar-smoking caboclos playing dominoes and robust ribeirinhos engaged in arm-wrestling tournaments. The subsequent conversation found Mr. Wallace struggling with incompatible oral needs—eating and talking—so that most of his excited sentences entered the air accompanied by flying morsels of manatee.
“From my observations here in Amazonia, I would argue that every species has come into being coincident in time and space with a pre-existing, closely allied type,” said the naturalist. “Ah, but does each such advent represent a separate divine initiative, or might we posit another explanation?”
“Excellent question,” said Chloe.
“When apes do battle with angels, I always put my money on the jungle,” said Ralph.
“You’re a materialist, then, Mr. Dartworthy?” asked Mr. Wallace.
“In most circumstances, yes. After nine years before the mast, I’ve learned not to quarrel with typhoons.”
“Ralph is too modest,” said Chloe. “Though the world’s worst hurricane might befuddle him, he handily outmaneuvers the average gale.”
“Speaking of apes,” said Mr. Wallace, “might we consider the primate family in general? Traveling up and down the Amazonas tributaries, I’ve studied twenty-one species of monkey. Without exception, the types found on a given shore—the marmosets, for example—diverge markedly from their cousins on the opposite side. Why would God deploy this genus so capriciously? Why does one distinct species inhabit the western bank of the Negro whilst another colonizes the eastern, even though the climate and flora are identical on both sides?”
Chloe forced a smile of scientific camaraderie, even as she grimaced inwardly, for this man’s views seemed fully capable of winning the honors at Alastor Hall. “Tell me, Mr. Wallace, will you be returning to England soon?”
“September will find me in the East Indies, collecting and exploring for at least a year—but doubtless I shall in time grow homesick. Indeed, I already have.”
“Perchance you’ve heard of a theological competition in Oxford. Settle the God question to the judges’ satisfaction—for example, by presenting a convincing materialist theory of speciation—and you’ll walk away with ten thousand pounds.”
“Do you believe a person might actually construct a convincing materialist theory of speciation?” asked Mr. Wallace.
“The idea offends me beyond all telling,” replied Chloe, prompting Ralph to expel a sweetmeat and Mr. Chadwick to sneeze. “God is the author of all things.”
“I quite agree,” said Mr. Wallace. “It’s true that I seek the law of transmutation, but even if I succeed, I would never soil my discovery by turning it against the Almighty. Whatever principles underlie evolution, they indubitably bespeak God’s will.”
“Indubitably,” echoed Chloe as Ralph gulped audibly and Mr. Chadwick sneezed again.
“Then there’s the problem of Man himself,” said Mr. Wallace. “Our moral sense, rational intellect, and faculty of speech are manifestly gifts from on high. I’ve never seen the divine spark in a marmoset, but I observe it daily in Homo sapiens.”
“I am relieved to hear that opinion from so learned a person as yourself,” said Chloe.
“Miss Bathurst cannot begin to tell you how relieved she is,” said Ralph, grinning.
As it happened, however, Chloe failed to take pleasure in knowing Wallace was out of the race, for a sudden coldness now gripped her bones, accompanied by a hammering in her skull. She imagined she might be experiencing an overture to malaria—or yellow fever or typhus or perhaps even Annie Darwin’s nemesis, consumption: four possibilities she resolved to exile from her thoughts.
“You will excuse me, for I must make certain the Indians loaded my treasures on the proper boat,” said Mr. Wallace. “Let me express my gratitude for so memorable a conversation. The three of you have nourished me in body, mind, and soul.”
And with that benediction the naturalist slipped away.
“It’s over,” said Mr. Chadwick wistfully. “At long last, it’s over.” He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Owing to our Mr. Wallace, Jehovah’s coffin has received its final nail. This vicar’s faith is extinct.”
“I don’t follow your reasoning,” said Ralph. “The man believes in God.”
“When Mr. Wallace insists that a supernatural power undergirds Nature’s laws, I hear a poignant yearning but no real argument,” said Mr. Chadwick. “Our friend is merely averring that the universe exists, something I already knew. You have won the day, Miss Bathurst. For me, God is dead in all His aspects, including Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover and Mr. Locke’s Divine Clockmaker.”
“I’m sorry,” said Chloe, enduring a spell of terrestrial mal de mer.
“No, you’re not,” said Mr. Chadwick.
“No, I’m not,” she admitted, then took a big gulp of wine: a medicinal measure, she told herself—and the draught indeed settled her stomach, simultaneously restoring the warmth to her frame.
“You must be very sad,” said Ralph.
“Sad, but not despondent.” Mr. Chadwick consumed a final spoonful of stew. “For all I know, I shall soon find my situation tolerable, perhaps even convivial.” He popped a sweetmeat into his mouth. “O brave new world, that has such tortoises in it.”
* * *
“Godspeed, little brother.”
“Fare thee well, sweetest sister.”
Standing together on the thronging and boisterous central pier, not far from where she’d happened upon Mr. Wallace two days earlier, Chloe and Algernon engaged in a protracted embrace. Behind them stood Mr. Pritchard, Bartholomew the capuchin balanced on his shoulder, the monkey tugging on the man’s brimless cap, the sailor brooding silently, both mammals apparently impatient to return to England and start spending their £250. Scowling clouds crowded the sky, making ready to spill their daily quota of rain, and yet the sun burned brightly, undaunted by local meteorological conditions on any of its eight planets.
Her spontaneous choice of locution, Godspeed, piqued Chloe’s sense of irony, a transmutationist soliciting heavenly favors on behalf of a departing voyager being so prodigious an incongruity. “And may you find no occasion to seek the aid of a nonexistent Providence,” she hastened to add. At that moment, however, the notion of divine assistance greatly appealed to her, for the throbbing temples and swirling nausea she’d suffered whilst lunching with Mr. Wallace were upon her once again.
“I pray you, reconsider your decision,” said Algernon, firming his grip on his sea-bag. “Sail with me to Belém and thence to Plymouth. Converting my contos de réis to pounds, finding Father’s creditors, settling his debts—these are feats a charming actress can perform far more efficiently than a dissolute gamester. I understand your desire to reach Galápagos, but by going east instead you’ll be serving a greater good.”
“There are no greater goods,” Chloe insisted. “Only incompatible necessities.”
“Well said, darling!” exclaimed Solange, arriving on the scene shielded by her pink tasseled parasol, a frippery she’d purchased with her most recent stipend from Algernon. Collapsing the guarda-chuva, she sketched a curtsey bef
ore her benefactor. “You mustn’t lure my she-devil back to England. Her destiny lies in the Encantadas.”
“I learned long ago that attempting to dissuade Chloe from her assorted destinies is as pointless as drawing to an inside straight,” said Algernon. He pivoted abruptly and headed towards the Sereia, the Mermaid, a ponderous stern-wheeler with twin smokestacks and a double deck, her ranks of windows gleaming like silver coins on a gaucho’s belt. “Bonne chance, sweetest sister!” he called over his shoulder.
Solange turned her attentions to Mr. Pritchard and his capuchin, patting the monkey on the head. “I bid thee a heartfelt good-bye, my cunning Bartholomew. And I wish you a happy life, my excellent Hugh.”
Chee-chee-chee! squealed the monkey.
“Bartholomew is sorry you aren’t coming with us,” said Pritchard. “So am I.”
“My place is with Chloe,” said Solange.
“This will prove a mortal loyalty, mark my words,” said Pritchard. “You’re but halfway to the Pacific Ocean. Lethal hazards await you on the upper Amazon.”
“Then please accept this invitation to my funeral,” said Solange.
Pritchard sighed expansively and, feeding Bartholomew a bit of manioc, followed Algernon up the gangway, the monkey waving his paw in a sprightly adieu.
Much to Chloe’s satisfaction, her brother had booked passage on a Corporaçõ de Borracha Brasileiro vessel, its hold jammed bulwark to bulwark with peles. Throughout the trip downriver Algernon would presumably enjoy the protection of an honorable captain: no scalawag of the genus Gonçalves would steal his purse and throw him overboard. (Indeed, the journey might even increase her brother’s wealth, should he decide to visit the Sereia’s gaming tables.) But, alas, she could not enjoy these soothing thoughts, for her head vibrated like a citadel absorbing a cannonade, even as chills raced along her limbs like centipedes and her stomach played host to a maelstrom. Waving to Algernon as he stepped onto the stern-wheeler’s foredeck, she marveled at the frigid condition of her flesh. The sun was broiling everyone on the lower Negro, herself included, and yet she couldn’t stop shivering.
“Solange, I shall require your assistance in getting back to the hotel,” said Chloe.
“Are you ill, darling?”
“I fear I’m sickening for malaria. At least I hope I am, because otherwise I’ve contracted something even worse.”
“My dearest she-devil…”
It seemed to Chloe that the docks of Manáos had transmuted into a magic-lantern show staged by a demented sorcerer. One by one the luminous glass paintings flashed before her: the Sereia leaving the pier—a swaying palm tree—a scrawny yellow dog—a stack of peles—a cartload of plantains—an eddy in the river—the choleric clouds. And then, at the glowing core of the enchanted lamp, the candle guttered and died, leaving only a wisp of smoke to mark its passing, frail as a silkworm’s thread.
* * *
A match flared to life. Whilst the clouds above Manáos burst open, inundating the city, the magic-lantern sorcerer touched flame to wick, presenting Chloe with a second show. Flash—Ralph and Mr. Chadwick, easing her onto the hotel bed. Flash—her paisley shawl, draped over a chair. Flash—Solange, applying a wet cloth to her brow. Flash—the ceiling, so fissured it suggested a map of the Amazon basin. Flash—the lace curtains, transmuted into wraiths by the screaming wind.
Hour after hour she lay on her mattress, soaking the sheets with her sweat as the sickness filled her fibers and veins. Her teeth chattered like a metronome pacing a tarantella. Towards evening an elderly physician with a limp appeared and offered his verdict.
“The English senhora has malaria, preferable to yellow fever or typhus but still a grave malady,” said Doutor Furtado. “The question is whether she has contracted the severe form or the moderate.”
Although prepared in her mind for this diagnosis, Chloe was not ready in her bones. The word “malaria” sent tremors of dread coursing through her frame.
“How might we know which type has struck her?” asked Captain Runciter.
She wasn’t sure why her brother’s dubious friend had joined the vigil. He probably viewed her condition as a threat to his £2,000 share, so he’d come in hopes of somehow aiding her recuperation.
“If the senhora dies,” said Doutor Furtado, “we may safely conclude she suffered from the severe form. If she recovers—”
“She will recover,” insisted Solange, wrapping Chloe in a woolen blanket.
“My fair philosopher, you are about to play your greatest role.” Ralph pressed a steaming mug of chocolate to her lips. “Lazarus’s stricken sister, who defeated malaria and defied death.”
“The truth has set many a person free,” added Mr. Chadwick, “but soon Miss Bathurst will go to the Encantadas, there to set the truth free.”
Despite her friends’ encouragement, Chloe feared that the gods of pathology had not yet done their worst. Her premonition soon came true with a vengeance. For five days she lay within the prison of her ague, alternately enduring gusts of wind from a frigid abyss and gouts of hot ash spewed by a fire-breathing caiman. During her rare periods of lucidity, Doutor Furtado coaxed her into consuming draughts of quinine, “a venerable preparation,” as he put it, “from the bark of the cinchona tree.” It tasted like mosquito paste spread on offal. Even as the medicine entered her simmering blood, a storm arose within her skull, as ferocious as the cataclysm that had doomed the Equinox. Aware of the irony, she prayed for the strength not to pray, but her entreaties went unanswered, and so against her better judgment she opened her heart to Heaven, whereupon Heaven, in its majesty, reciprocated—or so it seemed.
At first she did battle with her revelation. A self-respecting transmutationist will always take the field against a sickbed epiphany. But in time the implacable fact of infinity wore her down, and a putative truth shone forth.
A divine, benign, provisionally knowable Presence lay behind the multifarious façades of the universe. A numinous, luminous, unimaginably magnificent something. Call it the flesh of infinity. The light of eternity. The essence of the all. The song of morning stars. Call it God.
Within her reeling brain a basso profundo voice arose, intoning, “Chloe, Chloe, why persecutest thou me?” Why indeed? Why mock the cosmos when she could meld with it?
“Infinity!” cried the lapsed transmutationist, forcing the word through the rattling portcullis of her jaw. “Eternity!” shrieked the erstwhile antichrist, lurching into an upright posture before toppling back into the salty fen of her bedclothes.
An indeterminate interval passed. She slept fitfully. Her blood cooled. Her fever broke. She was vaguely aware of her friends speaking in exultant whispers, praising whatever profane force (luck? coincidence? cinchona bark?) they imagined had occasioned her recovery. When at length she surfaced into consciousness, she understood herself to be a transmogrified creature, racked yet redeemed. She had become an apostle of the Presence, its radiance now soothing her soul and easing the ache in her brain. To preserve this exceeding peace she would do whatever the universe might ask of her, even unto the cancellation of her quest.
* * *
Throughout the fortnight that followed Miss Bathurst’s deliverance from the ague and collision with infinity, Malcolm made a daily habit of walking to the Catedral de Nossa Senhora da Imaculada Conceição, where she could reliably be found of an afternoon, lighting candles, kneeling before sandstone saints, and struggling to translate the captions on the dozen jars filled with martyrs’ bones. Accosting her within the holy edifice (which was not really a cathedral but a tumbledown church, as shabby as every other building in Manáos), he would repeat the latest declarations of dismay from Dartworthy, Runciter, and Miss Kirsop. Not surprisingly, Miss Bathurst proved less interested in hearing about the English adventurers’ low opinion of her epiphany than in talking about “the glue of the universe,” “the flesh of infinity,” and “the essence of the all,” which to Malcolm’s ear sounded like a freethinker’s euphemisms for
God.
“How wrong I was to have mocked the cosmos,” she declared at the start of their fifth meeting.
“Allow me to suggest that this religious conversion, or whatever you call it, has more to do with malaria than with the workings of eternity.”
“And allow me to suggest that, concerning the factuality of the numinous, Reverend, you had it right the first time,” said Miss Bathurst. “Do you remember your recitation from the Book of Job aboard the Equinox? Whilst on my sickbed, I heard the morning stars sing together.” She sidled towards the donation box, evidently intending to purchase votive candles. “You will be pleased to learn I’m renewing my allegiance to chastity. My feelings for Ralph now occupy a wholly incorporeal plane.”
“Lo, the poor sailor, doomed to suffer the pangs of unrequited concupiscence,” said Malcolm, indulging in an uncustomary sarcasm (and finding the idiom to his liking). He pointed to a statue of the Blessed Virgin. “Your newfound faith has a curiously Romish cast.”
“When in Manáos, do as the Manáos-folk do.”
With a sinking heart he surveyed the recovering malaria patient. At one time her cheeks had glowed a natural crimson, but now, drained by the disease, they were as wan as uncured hevé. Offended by her own locks, those glorious chestnut tresses, she’d chopped them level with her chin.
Upon feeding a 200-réis silver coin to the donation box, enough to reify three prayers in wax, Miss Bathurst approached an altar from which rose a painted plaster crucifix surrounded by a grid of tapers flickering in glass tubes. Taking the mother flame in hand, she ignited three candles. “This night I shall pray that a consumptive child named Annie might live. I shall also ask the Presence to watch over Ralph and Solange.”
“Miss Kirsop will not appreciate your prayer. This morning she said, ‘Make every effort to reacquaint Chloe with her senses, so she can lead us to victory at Alastor Hall.’ Dartworthy and Runciter expressed similar sentiments.”