Pictures from an Expedition

Eleanor Peterson

Great Falls, Mont.

April 6, 1919

Mr. John Wilson

Smithsonian Institution

Washington

My dear Mr. Wilson:

You asked what I remember of that time.

I remember the way the Montana summer seemed to be over before it had begun, and yet how each day seemed to last forever.

I remember the dirt, the wind, and the ever-threatening weather.

I remember Augustus working on a bluff, his easel shaded by a large canvas umbrella, the river coursing through the landscape down below.

I remember the rush of water over stones and over me, too, when Maggie convinced me to accompany her on her evening swim.

I remember sitting with my back against a tree as the stars slowly revealed themselves one by one in the darkening sky.

And the bones. I will never forget the bones.

The Sioux, Cheyenne, and Crow could tell you more about that time than I ever could. How men wandered across their land, took their teeth out upon demand, and picked up stones with no value. They were not interested in gold, but dug deep into the earth for the buffalo’s ancestors. They were harmless, these men, so the tribes let them move about their lands without interference, but the Indians also knew that the men were crazy and should be avoided whenever possible. Had I known then what the Indians knew, I, too, might have kept my distance even though I was faced at the time with a future of little or no prospects, and was presented with what I believed to be an opportunity to enter their profession as a colleague and a peer.

I must assume that the drawings of ammonites you mentioned in your letter are from Augustus Starwood’s collection. The one you asked about in particular is an ammonite Augustus labeled a suicide, a designation I thought absurd at the time. Augustus had strange notions about a lot of things, although I must admit many of his opinions proved to be correct in the end. Even his theory about that ammonite. When any creature develops such an unconventional approach to making its way through life, it is destined by the laws of evolution not to survive.

As for other memorabilia, as you referred to it, I still have one of Augustus’ silk robes, embroidered with thirteen dragons, but I cannot imagine this would be of particular interest since all of his robes were originally from China. I also have two landscapes he painted at the time, and some of his drawings and sketches. Many of these, I can admit now, were stolen from Augustus, but only to keep them from being destroyed. He did not consider them representative of his work, although in retrospect they marked a major shift in the way he viewed and represented the world.

I also have two portraits he painted while we were in Montana, but with those I am not yet ready to part. I would be willing to bequeath any or all of Augustus’ paintings to your institution, if you could guarantee that they would remain with those in your possession, and that you would at some point in the future assemble a show. In spite of Augustus’ contempt for spectacles and displays, I believe his work deserves at least one public viewing.

You asked, too, what I remember about the region’s natural history, but I fear I was too distracted to be much of a skilled observer and at the time was unable to appreciate the stark, almost desolate beauty of the place. James Huntington, who often visited our camp along the Missouri and later opened his home site to us when the Indians started their move to the north, had an extensive scientific library to which he generously let me refer. But other than some brief notations about the birds and insects inhabiting the area, the work of an amateur I can assure you, there is little which I could recall that would be of much scientific or historical interest. To this day I carry with me a small collection of rocks given to me by Mr. Huntington, who insisted at the time they were mere trifles and not meant as a gift. Although I am not willing to part with them, you are welcome to see them if you think they will help further your work. I also kept a journal, but it was lost with some other personal items that summer, although in retrospect I’m sure my entries at the time would have proven to be perfunctory at best.

I later constructed a timeline of sorts, an illustration of the layers of time fashioned, I suppose, after those developed by the scientists with whom I worked. My amateurish attempt to identify the layers of space and time through which we all traveled to bring us to that fateful summer in Montana on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River, the Sioux, still flush from their victory, camped just to the south. But rather than the millions of geological years that the scientists envision, my timeline is layered in hours and days and months and years. And mine is a chart of living, breathing men and, I dare say, women, not ancient rocks or extinct beasts. Again, this is a personal item but I would be more than willing to share it with you if it will help you better understand Augustus’ body of work.

One of the very first things I learned from working with Augustus, who was a scientist at heart, is to open my eyes and question what the subject matter reveals, be it the landscape of a person’s face or a wayward ammonite from the ancient past. I am now confident that there is the smallest window, a mere heartbeat really, when man and weather and geology and time all align, and the secrets of the earth are revealed. Fatelines, someone once referred to them, as he explained how science was slowly unveiling the earth’s true secrets. I view your request as an opportunity to identify where our own collective fatelines came to pass.

Most sincerely yours,

Eleanor Peterson

1. PHOTOGRAPH, WOMAN WITH BONES

To trace my own fateline backward, and identify where my path started its trajectory west, I simply need to recall the day the photograph you’ve labeled Woman with Bones, Philadelphia was taken in the library of the Academy. I have a weathered copy of that photograph in my own personal collection, but there are images from that day that will remain with me always: the empty, cavernous space with its sweet lingering scent of leather and wax; the light falling in hot, dusty patches from the windows high along one wall; the smoothly polished floor marked by dulled pathways where the shelving once stood. I remember, too, how I removed my spectacles, and how the sunlight caught the edge of one of the lenses and refracted into a fleeting rainbow of light.

The photograph does not adequately capture the roomful of bones I was documenting for the Academy, but instead focuses directly on the woman I once was: no longer young, never particularly beautiful, immodestly staring into the camera without concern for what it revealed, much the way Augustus taught me to look directly at him while he worked. It was at the photographer’s request that I have pushed back onto my haunches and quieted my hands, but as usual my shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow and my apron is covered with dust and dark splotches of paint. My hair, already showing signs of gray, flames out around my head in a way that Augustus would have represented as a halo or a wild garland of weeds, but to me simply appears unruly. And, as you have noted in your citation, I am surrounded by very large bones. I was working on the Academy’s hadrosaur at the time.

Although they do not appear in the photograph, I would soon discover that two men were standing in the doorway, silently watching as I scrambled from one end of the expansive space to the other, placing each rib bone in descending order, trying to estimate, from the femur to the metatarsals, where and how to position the bones of the legs. This aspect of my work was always a bit like assembling an enormous puzzle, with each bone creating a picture of the beast, albeit a two-dimensional one, as if the creature had been pressed, like something fragile as a flower, for display under glass.

As I arranged and rearranged the position of the bones, I tried to imagine how the creature might have lived and moved and should therefore be represented. It was amazing to me then, as it still is to me now, that science can discover everything it needs to know from the bones, but only if the men working on them are open to seeing what these relics in fact reveal. It is amazing, too, that it does not matter much if the bones once belonged to a man or a beast, since once the skin and flesh are stripped away, we are all more similar than unique in almost every single way. Darwin’s work should not have come as a surprise in that regard.

It was hot that day in the Academy, with the sun beating down on the emptying building, baking the cavernous library space like a kiln. I pushed at my damp hair and wiped my brow with my sleeve, and then reached out to adjust the location of a dorsal vertebra. Only then did I notice the two men intently studying me in much the same way that I was studying the bones.

One man, the younger of the two, I had met before since he often visited the Academy, checking on the status of the fossils and inquiring after my work. This gentleman, who never told me his name although he made it clear he was from Yale College, presented himself one day in my small Academy workspace, and proceeded to handle the large tibia I was documenting, comparing it to the illustrations in my book.

This is excellent work, he told me at the time. The Captain will be most pleased. He smoothed his hand over the bone.

He had the look of a scholar, this man from Yale, with thin black hair combed straight back from his forehead, and pale, translucent skin suggesting not enough time interacting with the living, and too much time working with the skeletons of the dead. He wore a long black woolen coat and a gray silk scarf at his throat, even though the spring days were growing longer, hotter, and, as summer approached, more humid. And he was preternaturally still, slipping in and out of my workshop like a phantasm, his white hands soft and pliable, like the wax used to reconstruct and display the dead. I soon came to expect his visits, although I did not look forward to them.

The other man who entered the library that day was a stranger, older than his friend, with a complexion suggesting years spent at sea. Unlike his long, lean companion, this second man was red-faced, short, and stocky, with a bushy brown beard and mustache and casual yet gentlemanly dress. This second man joined his friend and lifted one of the heavy fibulas, turning the leg bone carved from clay until it shimmered momentarily and then was lost again in the library’s oblique light.

I like it, he exclaimed to his pale companion. The man’s voice echoed through the empty library. Excellent work. Well done. Well done.

The man ran a thick finger over the bone and placed it carefully against the adjoining tibia to ascertain whether or not the bone had a proper fit. With great concentration, he rocked the tibia back and forth in the air.

A perfect articulation, he boomed again. Very nice indeed.

I began to thank him but quickly realized he was speaking not to me, but to his companion, the man in black, who managed a thin, weary smile as the other man continued to handle the large, stiff bone. I replaced my spectacles, satisfied that my employment at the Academy was about to reach a successful conclusion since even these gentlemen from Yale College appeared to be pleased with the quality of my work. As I prepared to remove myself from the room, the man with the beard bellowed again.

Now, this is interesting. He drew his companion’s attention to the animal’s foot. It’s missing a metatarsal, he declared. "Didn’t my Claosaurus have a fourth metatarsal? What happened to the fourth metatarsal?" he demanded to know.

His friend raised his eyebrows as if to say he hadn’t seen it, but by then the gentleman with the beard had turned his attention to the curve of pubis I had smoothed out and appended to what had once been no more than a broken piece of bone.

Ah, but will you look at this, he said. Excellent work. Excellent indeed.

The man was practically shouting at his friend but since he was still not speaking to me, I started to retreat, stopping only long enough to remove my journal. Before I could reach it, however, he scooped it from the floor.

I need that, the bearded man announced. Roughly he riffled the pages.

Look, he said, speaking again to his companion as if I were inhabiting an invisible world. See how she sizes those vertebrae, comparing the cervical to the dorsal to the caudal? Quite lovely. I’m very impressed. This is exactly what I need. My uncle would be most pleased. He flipped through a few more illustrations. Where did she receive her training?

The man in black started to explain my brief career as an assistant to Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins in New York and how, with no formal training, I had learned my craft working as an illustrator for the leading artist in the world of science, but his companion cut him short.

Yes, yes, that was a shame what happened to that project, the older man declared. But what can you expect, dabbling with the politics of that city while trying to appease the curiosity of the masses? Have you seen the drawings of the creatures they were planning to construct? Pure flights of fancy, I can assure you. Those beasts are probably still buried out there somewhere in Central Park. Best to stay clear of all of that, would have been my advice. Still, he added thoughtfully, she has a certain talent, there’s no denying it. Feminine intuition, I suppose.

Again, he turned his attention to the bones.

Forgive me, I said, inching toward the man with the beard, but may I please have my journal? I am certain it will be of no interest to you.

At these words, the man in black grew paler by the second, his eyes burrowing even deeper into his skull. But the other man, the red-faced one, was not in the least bit deterred.

"Forgive me, the man blustered. It is I who have been rude. Call me the Captain, he said. Please. Accept my hand. And my apologies."

The Captain reached his free hand across the skeleton, still holding my journal folded tightly to his chest. As he leaned toward me, I could feel myself pulling away, my head turning slightly, my body readying itself for retreat. But then, focusing on the apparent generosity of the man’s offered hand, I, too, reached out, my fingers touching his.

How much do they pay you here? the Captain demanded to know.

Excuse me?

What is your salary? he asked. Before I could respond, he added, Can’t be much, since even the Academy knows there is little value in these futile attempts at public displays. He said this with undisguised contempt.

I understood the question but still I hesitated, uncertain about the nature of what he really wanted to know. Apparently the man took my confusion as reticence to negotiate, so he blustered right past my reserve.

It doesn’t matter, the man announced. Whatever it is, I’ll double it. I have too much to worry about right now without adding quibbling about salaries to my list.

At this proclamation, the Captain’s slim companion sidled up to him and whispered something about the fact that I had only been hired to help with the Centennial Exhibition and then to document this skeleton in preparation for the Academy’s move. Surely he must realize that I was not a regular employee of the Academy, but nothing more than a day laborer.

Doesn’t matter, the Captain boomed. I want her. I need her. Actually, he continued, pausing to compose his thoughts, it is Patrick who needs her. Or he may never make it home.

At this bit of news the young gentleman from Yale raised his chin ever so slightly and let out an almost silent Ahhh of understanding. Then he pointed that thin, reptilian smile of his in my direction.

I believe, Misssss . . . The man in black hesitated. Forgive me. I do not recall your name. It is Miss, is it not?

Peterson, I told him.

Yes. Peterson, then. I believe you are being offered employment. Extremely well paying employment, I might add. Not the sort of day work you have been doing for the Academy, although it will certainly require the same sort of skills. If, that is, you are interested in working at Yale College. He said this as if I might have missed the point of what was being offered.

As the man in black explained to me the conditions of my employ, and of the travel to the Territories initially involved, the Captain examined the repairs I had made to the animal’s mandible. He grunted an approval, and then hoisted the large hadrosaur skull over his head and smiled warmly at the toothy piece of bone.

‘Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well,’ he said.

And then the Captain’s booming laugh echoed through the cavernous library, empty except for the two men, me, and the bones.

2. PORTRAIT, WOMAN AND LACE CURTAIN

I’m fairly certain that the portrait in oil you’ve listed as Woman and Lace Curtain was painted in part that same afternoon, when I told Augustus of the news. You can tell for certain it’s from that same period if you compare it to the photograph taken at the Academy, although you should note that in Augustus’ hands my filthy work clothes were inevitably transformed into wispy, angelic-like garbs.

Of course you can’t go, was Augustus’ immediate reply when I told him of my news. I am not done with you yet.

To this day I can still see him standing there in his robe, his long white hair glowing in the late afternoon light, as I told him of what had transpired. He kissed my fingertips lightly and told me that if I wanted his advice, I needed to wait for him on the other side of the room, closer to the window.

Just stand over there, my darling, he said, stopping for a moment to cough up whatever was getting in the way of his breath. Then I promise to give you all the advice you could ever desire.

It was hot in his rooms, hotter even than in the Academy. Sweat beaded along my forehead and the small of my back. Again I tried to speak, but Augustus waved away my words.

Not yet, he said, placing a finger to his lips. I’m thinking. Take that chair. The one next to the window.

Outside, men were sawing and hammering, having moved their attentions from the Centennial Exhibition to prepare for the city’s own celebration of the Fourth. Someone called out to a friend on the street, while down the hall a baby cried, fighting off sleep, and children shouted and laughed and raced up and down the stairs. But when Augustus worked he never seemed bothered by the heat or the noise. He stood in the deepening shadows, coughing again and waiting, I suppose, for me to do as I was told.

I pulled the chair away from the open window so that the workmen on the street could not see me, but kept it close enough to enjoy the breeze fluttering the lace. Anticipating Augustus’ next request, I unpinned my hair. Watching me closely, Augustus adjusted the angle of the chair to perfect the light and loosened the ties of my dress. Still not speaking, he ran his hands through my hair so that it fell wildly down my back and across the front of my shoulder. He lifted my left arm onto the back of the chair, so that my upper body faced him and the room, while the rest of my body was turned toward the shadows.

Beautiful, he declared, touching my face, the way he often did during these sessions. Only then did he tell me that if I was ready for his promised advice, it was this: that I must never leave that chair. I need you, I remember him telling me. Sitting there in that warm northern light is where you belong. It makes you look young again, Eleanor.

I always enjoyed sitting for Augustus when in Philadelphia. Compared to the stark conditions of my own room at that time, no more than a campsite really, his was a lush and luxuriant shrine, with caged birds and potted plants, unfinished canvases stacked against the walls, brightly colored scarves and cloths draped over tables and chairs, and strange displays of moss-covered wood, multi-colored rocks and shells, and peculiar-looking dried-out bugs, frogs, and fish that Augustus collected along the Schuylkill River before his health began to fail. Confined now to the city because of what he referred to as old age and infirmity, Augustus had arranged his odd collections into miniature dioramas along tabletops and ledges, and had painted vast, mist-covered landscapes and seascapes as backdrops for his Lilliputian world.

Since he could no longer collect artifacts on his rambles, as he referred to them, his passion had shifted to the collection of ammonites, which were delivered to him through the mail. It was these ancient creatures of the sea, displayed on a lace-covered table next to his bed, that I spent hours drawing, trying to capture, at first in often clumsy fashion, the evolutionary function and beauty of their million-years-old shells. Augustus would analyze and critique my illustrations, instructing me how to use the side of my pencil to add depth, or how to use the slightest hatch marks to suggest contour and form, always most generous with his advice and patient, too, given his reservations about my focusing on what he dismissed as the minutiae of his domestic life. If he had his way, he insisted, I would tackle subject matter of more artistic and, thus, lasting appeal. But then the secrets wrapped up in shells and fossils held no fascination for Augustus, who once confessed he preferred flesh over bones.

I have a new ammonite for you, my darling, Augustus announced from behind his easel. It has just arrived, direct to my room from the Cretaceous. As your teacher, I thought it only fitting that I should provide you with a few lessons in living. It’s a regular little morality play, that ammonite.

Augustus, please, I countered. They are offering me a great sum of money.

You’re missing my point, he replied. If you promise not to move, I will show you.

From the back of the room Augustus retrieved an ammonite still partially encased in a piece of the sandstone in which it had been discovered. He placed the prehistoric creature on a small table, where the opalescence of the shell hinted at its original colors of silver, blue, and pink.

Now, don’t move, he warned, returning to his work, but I want you to notice how this ammonite started its early years spiraling in neat, concentric swirls, but at some point in its life spiraled outward and then back again, as if in defiance of its heredity. Do you think you can represent that, my darling, you who are determined against my good counsel to be a mere illustrator of bones?

But it’s all askew, I noted. As if it lost its way.

Precisely, my dear.

Augustus, please don’t be difficult, I pleaded. I need to speak to you about this. It’s not just the money. It’s an opportunity to have a real profession. Please.

Augustus stared at me from behind his easel.

A profession? he said, with clear contempt for the word. He put down his brush, wiped his hands on his robe, and stepped into the patterned light infiltrating the room through the curtain of lace. Is that what you want, Eleanor? When I first met you I had the distinct impression that you wanted to be an artist. Not a mere technicist toiling away in academia. He looked as if I were now the object of that contempt. Casting and displaying bones to pacify a public numbed by war, destitute from economic depression, and now hungry for diversion is not art, my darling. I would think there could not possibly be enough money in the world to pay you for that.

He wiped his hands again, poured out a small tumbler of whiskey, took a swallow, and placed the remains on the table next to the ammonite. The liquid glowed like ancient amber trapped within the confines of the glass.

These men are not making any significant contributions to science, Eleanor, but rather shuffling bones around to prove their latest theory, he said at last. You have told me yourself that they are living by and large in a world of their own design. One which, I feel duty-bound to point out, will never include the likes of you.

When I started to object, he stepped forward and inched my chair closer to the window.

Now sit still, Eleanor. And relax, if you don’t mind. Couldn’t we just for this moment pretend that you are not wasting your life toiling for ingrates who neither see nor appreciate your finer qualities?

Augustus, you know I cannot afford to turn away any opportunity, even for a fraction of what they have offered. But that’s not what I am asking you now, even though that kind of money would make a big difference in the way that I live. Can you imagine having enough money to do as I please?

In spite of my earnestness, I could not help myself. That kind of money seemed so far from my grasp that I inadvertently laughed.