Winter Count

by Barry Lopez

  Winter Count

  Barry Lopez

  For Friends,

  Their Uncommon Grace

  Contents

  Restoration

  Winter Herons

  Buffalo

  The Orrery

  Winter Count 1973: Geese, They Flew Over in a Storm

  The Tapestry

  The Woman Who Had Shells

  The Lover of Words

  The Location of the River

  A Biography of Barry Lopez

  After the long letters

  have been written, read,

  abandoned, after

  distances grow absolute

  and speech, too,

  is distance, only

  listening is left.

  I have heard the dark hearts

  of the stones

  that beat once in a lifetime.

  WILLIAM PITT ROOT

  We are ignorant of the meaning of the dragon in the same way that we are ignorant of the meaning of the universe, but there is something in the dragon’s image that fits man’s imagination, and this accounts for the dragon’s appearance in different places and periods.

  JORGE LUIS BORGES

  Among several tribes on the northern plains, the passage of time from one summer to the next was marked by noting a single memorable event.

  The sequence of such memories, recorded pictographically on a buffalo robe or spoken aloud, was called a winter count.

  Several winter counts might be in progress at any one time in the same tribe, each differing according to the personality of its keeper.

  Restoration

  JUST OVER THE MONTANA border in North Dakota, north of the small town of Killdeer, there is a French mansion. It is part of a frontier estate built in 1863 for a titled family called de Crenir, from Bordeaux. When the last of the de Crenirs died in France in 1904, the two-story Victorian house, its contents, and the surrounding acres were bequeathed to the nearby town. Looking incongruous still in the vast landscape of brown hills, it has since stood as a tourist attraction.

  There are various explanations for why the house was built in such a desolate place, after the fur trade had passed on but before the Indian wars were over and settlement had come. In time, the Great Northern Railroad reached it, but the first de Crenirs had to come up by boat seven hundred miles from St. Louis and finish the journey by horse. According to a pamphlet given to tourists, the family had had thoughts of establishing a cattle empire, but their visits were irregular and short. In spite of the rich furnishings freighted in and installed and the considerable expense and trouble involved in construction, only one, René de Crenir, ever overwintered there. His visits began in the spring of 1883 and he arrived each spring thereafter, departing each fall until he took up permanent residence in 1887. Seven years later, in the summer of 1894, he left abruptly, and no de Crenir ever came again. This young de Crenir, too, the pamphlet goes on to say, was the only one of the family to visit regularly with people in town, or who rode more than a day’s journey into the surrounding country.

  The gray and white house gives the impression now of being a military outpost on the edge of an empire of silence and space, the domain, at the time it was built, of buffalo, bear, antelope, wolves, Hunkpapa Sioux, Crows off to the west, and others. Today there is little of value left beyond the house itself and a few pieces of period furniture except a collection of extraordinary books.

  In the summer of 1974, this collection was in the process of being restored by a man named Edward Seraut. I was driving east and saw a highway advertisement outside Killdeer—HISTORIC FRENCH CHATEAU • 12 MILES • ICE CREAM • COOL DRINKS • SOUVENIRS—and had stopped and toured the mansion with other people on vacation. Afterward, with a guard’s permission and anticipating a conversation, I went back to the library on the second floor and introduced myself, somewhat hesitantly, to Seraut.

  I had been struck right away by the sight of him, sitting still and jacketless in a straight chair with a broken book in his lap, as though bereaved. He was perhaps in his sixties. He seemed gratified by my interest, though I startled him when I came up. He showed me, still with a slightly quizzical look, a few of the books he had been working on—an oversized folio of colored prints of North American mammals by Karl Bodmer, and a copy, I recognized, of La Mettrie’s L’Homme Machine. He described a technique he was just then using to remove a stain called foxing from a flyleaf. I was drawn to him. When I asked if I might take him to dinner, he said he would be glad—delighted.

  “I’ve been here for months,” he said, “and I’ve hardly looked out the windows.”

  While I waited for the estate to close—Seraut said he was obliged to work in public view until closing time—I walked out into the surrounding hills. They had a smoothness of line, an evenness of tone, that is often called graceful, the sun-dried grasses being everywhere the same height. I wondered if these might be the native grasses, come back. The dry hills seemed without life, though in the distance, through shimmering heat waves, some Herefords or other kind of cattle were grazing.

  When I returned to the house, Seraut was not quite ready and, glad to watch, I insisted he go on. His tools appeared surgical. Laid out on a long refectory table, amid presses and rolls of paper and leather, were forceps and scalpels, tweezers, syringes filled with glue, many spools of thread and several kinds of knives. The room was filled, too, with a pleasing light, but when I remarked about it, Seraut said this was one of the reasons the collection had deteriorated—that, and the fact that many of the books had been so heavily used. He indicated the worn headband on a book as he handed it to me. I knew this book, too, William Bartram’s Travels Through North and South Carolina—a first edition. But I was mesmerized more by Seraut’s efficiency. He had beveled a frayed corner clean and then anchored a new piece of book board to it with tiny steel pins, like a bone fracture. When he covered the corner with leather, the matching of line and texture was so deft the repair seemed never to have been made. Indeed, like the other corners, it appeared slightly rubbed from use.

  He firmed the book in a small press and we left.

  On the way into town we both marveled at the broad reach, the sultry reds and oranges, the lingering yellows, of the North Dakota sunset. Seraut remarked on the fine shading of colors, their densities. Leathers, he said, after a moment, could be treated with certain vegetable dyes to achieve a range of color as subtle. I asked, did one, in taking advantage of such skills, restore a book so well it avoided detection? Or did one leave clear evidence of what had been done, so as not to confuse the issue of originality? He leaned toward the former, he said, but always tipped a small sheet of paper into the back of the book, noting the date of restoration and what he had done.

  I had been attracted to Seraut because of his work, and the atmosphere of well-read books; but there was a kind of incongruity about him, too, that was as attractive. His dress was foreign, a dark wool suit, a white shirt with a plain dark tie. He was mannered—a suggestion of polite intentions and cultivated tastes. There was almost the air of a prior about him. He seemed oblivious to the country in which he was now at work.

  He had been hired, he told me, by a man in Illinois, a lawyer who had bought the de Crenir collection. A committee of townspeople had advertised it for sale in order to raise money to refurbish the mansion—629 leather-bound volumes belonging to René de Crenir, most on topics of natural history, some dating from the sixteenth century. The man had asked Seraut to travel to North Dakota, to restore the collection and prepare it for shipment east.

  Seraut said he spent his days filling insect holes, repairing deteriorating spines, restoring gold tooling—“accurate and sympathetic restoration,” he told me, “not crude mutilations or the inappropriate embellishment
s of amateurs.” If necessary he would dismantle a book entirely in order to resize and rehinge each page, before sewing it all back together. He had been working for three months but would need another few weeks, he thought, to finish. He lived at the de Crenir mansion. He said nothing of any contact with the townspeople. The afternoon I met him he had paid no attention at all to the tourists who had wandered through.

  Over dinner, perhaps because of the wine, he spoke with sudden passion of the art and obscurity of his profession, at one point emphasizing the obscurity with a gesture of his arm toward the far reaches of the prairie that lay beyond the walls of the hotel. I tried to listen politely but was caught by an offhand reference to being able to reconstruct René de Crenir’s intellectual life, through a study of the collection. How? I asked.

  The volumes that have seen the most use, he went on, indicated de Crenir’s principal concern was with the presence of animals in North America that were unknown in Europe. The library contained first editions of the journals and letters of James Oglethorpe, Thomas Nuttall, André Michaux, and Cadwallader Colden, all of whom were among the earliest to make extensive, first-hand notes on the natural history of North America. There were copies, too, of many of the early accounts of plains exploration—Lewis and Clark, Bradbury, Stewart. Seraut said he believed de Crenir had been obsessed with understanding the nature of animals foreign to the European mind, that he wanted a new understanding, rooted in North America and representing a radically different view of the place of animals in human ideas.

  To want to try to do this, I said, was certainly reasonable. European naturalists had groped at first for European analogs to describe unfamiliar animals—they had referred to American coyotes, for example, as jackals. The stories of alligators and eight-foot diamondback rattlesnakes they brought home were not taken seriously, nor was the idea that a grizzly bear might not be fazed by three or four bullets. The soulless vision of creatures set forth at the time by Descartes and Linnaeus was not affected by the North American discoveries and it soon absorbed them, passing right over the native taxonomies. De Crenir, I said, may have wanted to throw out the European system and fit the American animals to a new system—but how?

  We ordered brandy and cigars after dinner. I was now deeply affected by the atmosphere of ideas and history that emanated from Seraut, and periodically stunned by the sight of young, ferine men cruising in slow-moving pickups on the other side of the window, or distracted by the rise and fall of ranchers’ voices and the din of country-and-western music in an adjoining bar. As Seraut speculated, I became more and more fascinated by de Crenir. Had he ever published? Seraut shrugged. Perhaps, but he thought not. There were only stray notes, no manuscripts. Risking the feeling of camaraderie, I asked if I could examine the library the next day. I knew some natural history; perhaps I could construct an outline of de Crenir’s work. Seraut said he had no objection, though I sensed he thought my interest precipitate and improper.

  I drove him back. In the August moonlight, the North Dakota hills appeared in soft outline, gentle and unearthly.

  By the time I arrived the next morning the first visitors had already been through. Seraut was at work in shirt sleeves. Not wishing to disturb him, I began to read the titles of books on the shelves, examining a few at random as I went along. One I pulled down, on the classification of European butterflies, was interspersed with thin sheets of paper on which were written notes in French—I assumed in René de Crenir’s hand—about Hermes, Atalanta, and others from Greek mythology. Similar notes in other books referred to the Eddas, the Bhagavad-Gita. Those books not concerned with natural history bore mostly on religion, philosophy, and Catholic theology.

  Underneath a pair of tall casement windows there was an empty table. With an enquiring nod to Seraut, who looked up expressionless from what he was doing, I laid out several volumes and began to make notes of my own. I worked through a long morning, looking away occasionally only to study the older man. His fingers were crooked slightly with arthritis but moved deliberately and adroitly over his materials. In the bright sunlight slanting into the high-ceilinged room the thin skin of his forearms appeared glassine. He seemed, even in this library, an anachronism.

  From what I could discover, de Crenir was an anti-rationalist, at odds with the Age of Reason, a champion of Montaigne. Once or twice I engaged Seraut in conversation, briefly sharing my ideas and enthusiasm. He directed me to other volumes; though he was taken up with its restoration, his interest in the contents of the collection seemed as intent. From these titles, their chapters and marginal notes, I gleaned that de Crenir believed a cultural and philosophic bias had prevented nineteenth-century European naturalists from comprehending much of the plant and animal life they saw in North America. The resulting confusion, he believed, had kept them in ignorance of something even more profound: de Crenir had written in the margin of Maximilian’s Reise in das innere Nord-Amerika, “Ici les bêtes sont les propriétaires”—in North America the indigenous philosophy grew out of the lives of animals.

  De Crenir was largely correct—as subsequent work by anthropologists made clear. What was so startling was that in the whole of his library there were only eight or ten books that bore in any way at all on native American philosophy, only such things as the works of James Hall. De Crenir had apparently reached these conclusions alone.

  From here, I did not know where to go. If de Crenir thought animals the owners of the landscape, or even, in theological terms, equal with men, whom might he have spoken with about it? Whom had he written?

  Mr. Seraut and I had a late lunch together by one of the large windows. He seemed pleased by my findings. I said, out of a rush of ideas, that I might work on here for several days if that was all right and then possibly contact a friend who spoke excellent French. He showed me a book he had just taken out of the press. When I hesitated to hold it because of its beauty, he urged me to take it, to listen to the rattle of its pages, to examine the retooling. When he took the book back he said he preferred the older traditions. Where gold tooling was now restored with the aid of shellacs, he still used egg whites and vinegar, as had been done for four hundred years. His glues were still made from wheat flour. They would outlast the paper in some of the books.

  I asked him over our sandwiches if he had ever read any of Montaigne. Oh yes. Once, in Leningrad, he had restored a bound collection of Montaigne’s letters. He had read Montaigne’s misgivings about his work in his own hand. He spoke in a genial way, as though misgivings were a part of everything.

  Out the window we could see several miles across the rolling brown hills. In a draw below the house there suddenly appeared six antelope, frozen so still they seemed to shimmer in the dry grass. I saw sunlight glinting on the surface of their huge eyes, their hearts beating against soft, cream-white throats, the slender legs. Surprised by the house, or by us in the window, they were as suddenly gone. At the end of the room, beyond a blue velvet rope strung between polished brass stanchions, a line of tourists passed. They stared at us and then looked away nervously into the shelves of books. A girl in yellow shorts was eating ice cream. In a shaft of window light I could see the wheat paste dried to granules under Seraut’s fingernails and the excessive neatness of my own notes, the black ink like a skittering of shore birds over the white sheets.

  Winter Herons

  HE KNEW THAT THE azure blue skies above New York in October, the unassailable purity of the color, could release tears in him if he watched long enough. Seated on black marble, its darkness cool under his palms, the stone itself racketed as he looked deeper with ganglia of white neurons, he imagined he stood alone farther north, as in a Sung painting; stood beneath black skies with the white heartbeat of stars overhead and that rip tide of light, that Tai-chi extension of otherly grace, the northern lights.

  “I have no idea,” he had told her once, “why I long to be in that landscape, but I do. Maybe it is only being alone, infinitesimal. I can look at a whimbrel, the long-legge
d, hesitating movement, as if the bird were waiting for thoughts to enter its mind, and understand why in that vast tundra it chooses as it does precisely one lonely place to sit.”

  She had smiled at him. She knew he was right. She had never heard of a whimbrel.

  In the faces that moved past him now, over the purling of footsteps, he saw distortion, greed, subterfuge—predatory expressions; but more often he saw veiled faces, passing quick as sparrows or deer, unrevealed. In eyes, gray and brown and green, whose averting he caused with his staring, he felt affability just out of reach. He did not think there was more distrust here than on the streets of other cities, as he had always heard. More tension, perhaps. He regarded his shadow breaking up in the clothing of passersby, the sun coming over his shoulder down the long corridor of a crosstown street. Then the fandango of bright skirts and trousers parted, like a sudden upwelling of wood ducks, and the shadow of him rung on the sidewalk like the gnomen of a sundial.

  He had asked her to go north with him in June, when the light would hang over the land in unending compassion, when evenings were cool, before the mosquitoes came—at one in the morning the sky would still be too bright to hold stars; and she had arrived at the airport, the tiny airport, on a flight from Denver, and they had driven out to his aunt’s ranch to stay the week before going up.

  “And what do you do when you are not dancing?” his aunt had asked.

  “I think about dancing!” she burst out, as if for the first time in years she could speak without fear of repercussion. “I think of dances, my head is full of dances!” Then she brought her napkin to her lips, slightly embarrassed.

  He smiled into his plate, contorted inside with his own ebullience, and said nothing.

  They had made love that afternoon beneath cottonwoods, whose leaves swirled and roared in the wind above them, and later, as if the day had detached itself and them from the passage of time, they watched a flight of cranes lumbering over the short grasses into the distant gray-blue skies of Canada.