Landfalls (6 page)

The ringing of the ship's bell reminds Lamanon that the afternoon is waning, although exactly how far gone it is he cannot tell. He is not yet used to naval timekeeping, to counting how many times the bell is struck or to listening for the helmsman's call. It amazes him, the way the common seamen can sleep through any bell except the one that announces their watch or summons them to dinner. His own pocket watch stopped working within days of leaving Brest, and he has not been sure of the time since. Now, wondering if it is two o'clock or three, or, God forbid,
four
, he hurries through the rest of his missive, describing briefly—
too
briefly—his just-completed trip to the peak. He concludes by assuring the minister of everyone's health and happiness. “We are as one big family,” he writes, then remembering the captain's “Because I say so,” adds: “Monsieur de Lap
é
rouse is like our father.” He likes this sentiment, and will repeat it in each of the letters that follow. He signs off in his usual fashion—“Chev
er
de Lamanon”—and reaches for a fresh sheet of paper.

Alas, poor Lamanon! He does not know that the Marshal de Castries, minister of marine, will regard this letter with bemusement. Why, he will wonder, has Lap
é
rouse's naturalist written such a long letter to him, a letter that sounds like a report to the provincial
intendant
or even the Academy of Sciences? And what is all this about a “dry fog”? The minister will not remember any such fog, although he should. Gray and malodorous and leaving a trail of fine ash in its wake, it had greatly aggravated his sensitive lungs through that unusually warm summer. What he
will
remember is meeting Lamanon, once, right before the expedition left, and how very loquacious the naturalist was. At the time, the minister had attributed it to a younger man's understandable excitement on being introduced to important people in Versailles. Now he will suspect that Lamanon is one of those people who will talk (or write) forever if you let them. The minister will especially puzzle over this passage on the culinary habits of Proven
ç
al peasants. What is it to him if peasants turn up their noses at potatoes, or need beans with which to balance their liberal consumption of wine? And this claim Lamanon makes, that the wine, thus paired, does not cause drunkenness: it is preposterous.

The minister does not know that Lamanon loves beans, that he has always loved beans. Lamanon's mother, who implored him not to leave on the expedition and whose heart will break when she hears about the uncharted cove and the troublesome beads, can attest to this. Even as a child, Robert was a great favorite with their cook, as he preferred the simple bean dishes she made for her own family to the more complicated dishes she prepared for the Lamanons. There was also their gardener, Jer
ô
me, whom the young Robert liked to follow about the property. Jer
ô
me knew a great deal about plants and insects and rocks and weather, and many afternoons he would take Master Robert along when he went to meet his own brothers and cousins out in the fields or orchards. The farmhands could always be counted on to share a bean salad in the shade of the olive grove, and they also thought it good fun to ply the future chevalier with wine. The minister does not know any of this, of course. Indeed, Lamanon's mother does not know all of this either.

And what
of
these beans from Tenerife? They are, simply put, the best beans Lamanon has ever tasted. Fat and meaty, they keep their shape when cooked and provide just a hint of resistance when bitten into. Redolent of butter and chestnuts, they are so flavorful they scarcely need any seasoning. After eating them one night at an inn in the port city of Santa Cruz de Tenerife, Lamanon pestered the innkeeper, and then the inkeeper's wife, and then the man at the market, until he was standing on a hillside verdant with vining legumes, persuading himself that the climate at that altitude was comparable to the climate in Provence, and then persuading the farmer he was with to part with a sack of beans for planting. This sack he is now preparing to send to the Marshal de Castries.

The minister is busy. He is trying to reform the French Navy during a time of shrinking resources and escalating court intrigue. He will pass Lamanon's letter and the sack to an underling, who in turn will pass the letter and beans to someone else. By the time the beans reach Salon-de-Provence, many months will have passed. It will be past planting season for beans. The man in the mayor's office who opens the sack will wrinkle his nose at the ammoniac smell that wafts out. He will inform the mayor that Monsieur de Lamanon has sent them a sack of moldy beans from Tenerife by way of the naval office in Paris. “What shall I do with it, sir?” he will ask.

“Get rid of it,” the mayor will say. “I can smell it from here.”

The mayor's name is Auguste de Paul de Lamanon. He is tall like his younger brother, Robert, but thin where Robert tends to fat, and bald where Robert tends to hair. The arrival of the moldy beans will vex him extremely. First, he does not share his brother's alarm over the state of Proven
ç
al bean production. Second, why did Robert not send
all
the beans directly to Salon-de-Provence by way of Marseilles? Several months earlier, a letter from Robert arrived for their mother, a letter that contained some beans that their mother and Jer
ô
me have planted against a south-facing stone wall outside of the kitchen. Something small and green is now struggling there; his mother weeps every time she looks at it. Auguste has had to remain behind in Salon-de-Provence in order to comfort her. He also felt honor-bound to finish out his brother's term as mayor. Most of the time Auguste does not mind. But sometimes he remembers his resentment. This will be one of those times.

Meanwhile, back on the
Boussole
, on that warm August afternoon, Lamanon is writing a second letter, this one to the Marquis de Condorcet, the famous mathematician, philosopher, and soon-to-be revolutionary leader, who is, moreover, permanent secretary to the Academy of Sciences. Condorcet was the first to recommend Lamanon for the expedition, though it must be acknowledged that Lamanon asked him for the recommendation, and that Condorcet agreed to the request with some reluctance. It is not that Condorcet dislikes Lamanon; on the contrary, he is fond of the younger man and believes him to be a gifted natural philosopher. But appreciating the abilities of a fellow savant is different from believing that same man to be suited to life at sea. Who among us does not have the odd friend whose virtues we admire, but whom we do not wish to impose on others? Lamanon has no idea when he is giving offense and too little regard for authority. A few years ago, for instance, he began an argument with Buffon over the origin of fossils. Surely it was enough to publish his controversial ideas in the
Journal de physique
—that is what journals are for, after all. But what was he thinking, showing up at the salon of Madame Necker right afterward, knowing Buffon would be there, then heading straight for the old man and asking, “My dear Count, what did you make of my new piece in the
Journal
?”

Madame Necker, pale, powdered, and dressed in ivory, had turned to Condorcet and said, “Has your friend come simply to provoke my most distinguished guest into losing his temper?”

“No, madame,” Condorcet replied. “He suffers only from an excess of enthusiasm.”

Condorcet remembered this, and other instances like it, when Lamanon asked him to put his name forward for the Lap
é
rouse expedition. But put him forward he did, because it is difficult to refuse a man who has eaten so much at one's table. Then it irked him—irked him exceedingly—to discover that Lamanon had also solicited a recommendation from the Duke de La Rochefoucauld, president of the academy and friend of Benjamin Franklin. It suggested, uncomfortably, that for all his apparent lack of social acumen, Lamanon had somehow sensed the halfheartedness of his friend's support. But worse, it suggested that Condorcet's influence in these matters might not be as great as he imagined it to be.

Perhaps this explains why Lamanon's letters will receive such scant attention from Condorcet when they arrive. Not only this letter from Tenerife, but the others—one from Santa Catarina Island in three months' time and another, much longer, written two years hence, from Macao—will elicit a slight frown, an impatient perusal, then consignment to a large pile of documents that the mathematician intends, one day soon, to go through with more care.

Condorcet's wife, Sophie, a beautiful and intelligent woman whose love for him will amaze him until the day he dies, will ask, “What news from the great expedition, Nicolas?”

Condorcet will reply, “Oh, it is all barometric readings and magnetic intensities mixed up with Lamanon's bombast.”

“Just the thing to be read at the next meeting of the academy.”

Condorcet will snort. “I would not dream of denying Lamanon that pleasure when he returns,” he will say. And so Lamanon's letters and reports will remain on Condorcet's desk, read but not shared, and there they will remain until the Revolution upends everything, even mathematicians and their piles of paper.

This is all most unfortunate, as Condorcet's neglect will forever diminish Lamanon's scientific legacy. It is also too bad because Lamanon would be shocked to learn there might be cause for reserve between them. On the contrary, it pleases him to imagine Condorcet reading his letter. He can see the great man's distinctive dark eyebrows relaxing with delight when he sees who the letter is from, then contracting again with serious intent as he unfolds the pages and begins to read. Lamanon smiles as he leans over to conclude the letter: “We are like a big family on board, with Monsieur de Lap
é
rouse as our father,” he repeats. Then he folds the letter and affixes his seal to the back—he loves this part, the smell of the molten wax and its satisfying displacement under the weight of the seal—and moves on to write a very similar letter to the Count de Buffon. Yes, the same Buffon he provoked, first, with his disputatious paleontological
m
é
moire
, and then with his bad manners at Madame Necker's. But Lamanon does not worry if the count is still displeased, if, indeed, he ever noticed the count's displeasure at all; nor does he wonder if his letter will be welcome. He has an irrepressible faith in his own value as a man of science. And it is not always misplaced. Let us be clear about that. Lamanon will never know it, of course, but Buffon, still writing in his late seventies, will, in his monumental
Histoire naturelle
, refer to findings reported in this very letter from Tenerife.

As to the findings themselves, Condorcet is right that they have mostly to do with barometric readings and magnetic intensities. For Lamanon does not write to Condorcet and Buffon about beans. No. To these stalwarts of the French Enlightenment he writes about his ascent of the Peak of Tenerife. He and eleven other members of the expedition made the trip. It was the eve of the feast of St. Louis when they reached the top, where they drank to the king's health. “The highest elevation at which the feast day has ever been celebrated,” he writes. He goes on to say that he and his friend Father Mongez, the
Boussole
's chaplain and assistant naturalist, then settled down to serious scientific endeavor, collecting rocks, measuring air pressure with one barometer, then another, taking compass readings, noting the degree of magnetic inclination, counting their own pulses, and sniffing ammonia to see if it retained its strength at altitude. He is particularly pleased to report a new, barometrically derived measurement for the peak's height: 1,950
toises
. He hopes this will be useful, as there has been little agreement on this subject among visitors to the island.

He does not mention that ten of his colleagues left the peak as soon as they had toasted the king, bothered by the sulfurous fumes that swirled about the mountaintop. Or that at one point he sniffed the ammonia to keep from passing out. Nor does he mention that barometric determinations of altitude are notoriously unreliable. Presumably his correspondents know the method's limitations and do not need to be reminded. He also does not write about how he and Mongez tried—and failed—to calculate the height of the mountain trigonometrically, a calculation that could have verified the barometric result. It was a discouraging setback. They had the views they needed—every landmark clear—and had just begun to set up the surveying equipment, when the hired guides refused to remain any longer on the mountain. Their mules were out of food and water, they said, and no amount of money would induce them to stay. So Lamanon and Mongez were obliged to pack up their tools and descend.

The marquis and the count will not hear about these troubles. Nor will they learn about Lamanon's altercation with Monsieur de Lap
é
rouse right before the outing. How was Lamanon to know that the expedition would not cover the cost? He was taken aback when the commander informed him of this, especially as it was
one half hour
before the climbing party was scheduled to depart. Everything was in readiness—climbers assembled, guides present, mules packed with equipment, supplies, water, wine, bread, bean salad. A line from
Candide
sprang to Lamanon's mind at Lap
é
rouse's announcement: “My friend,” he wanted to say, quoting Pangloss, “this is not right at all. You go against the universal reason, and your timing is very bad!” But he saw the commander's round, unliterary face, blotchy with impatience, and thought better of it. “Sir, we were about to leave,” he said instead.

“I am sorry for that,” Lap
é
rouse said, though he did not look very sorry. “If only you had informed me of your plans in advance, Monsieur de Lamanon.”