Measuring the World (14 page)

Bonpland's nose was also bleeding again, and despite the wrappings he had no feeling in his hands any more. He excused himself, then sank to his knees and vomited.

Cautiously they clambered up a steep wall of rock. Bonpland thought of the day on the island in the Orinoco when they had been trapped by the rain. How had they actually got away? He couldn't remember. Just as he was about to ask Humboldt, the latter's foot dislodged a stone which hit him on the shoulder. It hurt so much that he almost lost his handholds. He closed his eyes tight and rubbed snow into his face. After that he felt better, except that the pulsing honeycomb still hung beside him and, even more unpleasant, every time he tried to grip on to the rock face, it pulled away from him a little. Now and again, weathered faces peered at him out of the cliff, looking half-decomposed, or bored. Luckily the mist made it impossible to see down.

That time on the island, in the river, he called. How did they actually get away?

The answer was so long in coming that Bonpland had completely forgotten the question when Humboldt eventually turned his head toward him. He couldn't remember for the life of him. So how did they?

At the top of the rock face the mist parted. They saw some snatches of blue sky and the cone of the summit. The cold air was very thin: no matter how deeply they breathed, almost nothing entered their lungs. Bonpland tried to take his pulse, but kept miscounting until eventually he gave up. They found a narrow bridge of rock covered with snow that led over a crevasse.

Look ahead, said Humboldt, never look down!

Bonpland immediately looked down. He felt the whole perspective shift as the floor of the ravine came hurtling up toward him and the bridge plunged downwards. Terrified, he clung to his stick. The bridge, he stuttered.

Keep moving, said Humboldt.

No rock, said Bonpland.

Humboldt stopped. It was true: there was no stone beneath them. They were on a freestanding bridge of snow. He stared down.

Don't think, said Bonpland. Keep moving.

Keep moving, repeated Humboldt, not moving an inch.

Just go, said Bonpland.

Humboldt set off again.

Bonpland set one foot in front of the other. For what seemed hours he heard the snow crunching and knew that the only thing between him and the abyss was water crystals. Right until the very end of his life, destitute and a prisoner in the loneliness of Paraguay, he would be able to recall these images in the smallest detail: the little clouds of mist dispersing, the bright air, the ravine at the bottom of his field of vision. He tried to hum a song, but the voice he heard wasn't his, and so he let it go. Ravine, summit, sky, and crunching snow, and they still hadn't reached the other side. And still not. Until at some point, Humboldt was already waiting and reached out a hand toward him. And he made it.

Bonpland, said Humboldt. He looked small and gray and suddenly old.

Humboldt, said Bonpland.

For a while they stood side by side, saying nothing. Bonpland pressed a handkerchief against his bleeding nose. Gradually, transparent at first but then more and more clearly, the pulsating honeycomb retreated. The snow bridge was ten feet long, fifteen at the most, and crossing it could only have taken a matter of seconds.

Testing every step, they moved along the ridge. Bonpland worked out that he was apparently three people: one who was walking, one who was watching the first one walking, and one who kept up a running commentary in a totally incomprehensible language. By way of an experiment, he slapped his own face. That helped a little and for a few minutes he was thinking more clearly. It just didn't change the fact that where the sky ought to be, there was ground, and that they were climbing downhill upside down.

But it did make sense, said Bonpland loudly. After all, they were on the other side of the earth.

He couldn't understand Humboldt's answer, because it was drowned out by the babbling commentary of the man accompanying him. Bonpland began to sing. First one, then the other of the men accompanying them joined in. Bonpland had learned the song at school, and was pretty sure that no one else in this hemisphere would know it. A proof that the two men at his side were real and not swindlers, because who could have taught it to them? Admittedly something in this thought wasn't quite logical, but he couldn't work out what. And finally it didn't matter, as there was no guarantee that he was the person having these thoughts, and not one of the other two. His breath came short and loud, and his heart was pounding.

Humboldt all of a sudden stopped dead.

Now what, called Bonpland, furious.

Humboldt asked if he could see it too.

Of course he could, said Bonpland, who had no idea what Humboldt was talking about.

He had to ask, said Humboldt. He couldn't trust his own senses. The dog kept mixing itself in.

Bonpland said he'd never been able to stand the dog.

This ravine here, said Humboldt, was a real ravine, wasn't it?

Bonpland looked down. In front of their feet a crack opened a good four hundred feet down into the deep. The track continued on the other side and the peak didn't seem to be that much further.

They would never manage to cross!

Bonpland had a shock, because he wasn't the one who'd spoken, it was the man to his right. But to be sure of its validity, he said it again himself. They would never manage to cross!

Never, said the man to his left. Unless they could fly.

Slowly, as if pushing against some resistance, Humboldt knelt and opened the container with the barometer. His hands were trembling so hard that he almost dropped it. Blood was running from his nose now too and dripping down onto his coat. No mistakes now, he said imploringly.

Gladly, said Bonpland.

Somehow Humboldt managed to light a fire and heat a little pot of water. He couldn't rely on the barometer, he explained, and not on his brain either, he had to calculate their altitude by establishing the boiling point. His eyes were narrowed and his lips trembled with the effort of concentration. When the water boiled, he measured the temperature and read off the clock. Then he pulled out his writing pad. He crumpled half a dozen sheets before his hand obeyed him sufficiently to allow him to write numbers.

Bonpland stared mistrustfully down into the ravine. The sky hung there far below them, rough-coated in frost. It seemed possible to adapt somewhat to standing on your head. But not to Humboldt taking so long to do his sums. Bonpland asked if they'd have the answer today.

Please excuse him, said Humboldt, he was having difficulty pulling himself together. Please could someone put the dog on the lead!

He'd never been able to stand the dog, said Bonpland. And then immediately was ashamed because he'd said it already. He was so embarrassed that he felt sick. He bent forward and vomited again.

Finished, asked Humboldt. Then he could tell him that they were now at an altitude of eighteen thousand six hundred and ninety feet.

Oh hallelujah, said Bonpland.

This made them the people who had climbed higher than anyone in history. No one had ever gone so far above sea level.

But the summit?

With or without the summit, it was a world record.

He wanted to get to the summit, said Bonpland.

Didn't he see the ravine, screamed Humboldt. They were neither of them in their right minds any more. If they didn't start down now, they'd never return at all.

One could always, said Bonpland, just say one had been up to the top.

Humboldt said he didn't want to have heard that.

He hadn't said it. It was the other one who'd said it.

Nobody could check, said Humboldt thoughtfully.

Quite, said Bonpland.

He hadn't said that, cried Humboldt.

Said what, said Bonpland.

They stared at each other, baffled.

The altitude had been established, said Humboldt finally. And the rock samples gathered. Now down, as fast as possible!

The descent took a long time. They had to make a wide detour round the ravine they had crossed on the snow bridge. But they had a clear view now, and Humboldt had no difficulty finding the path. Bonpland stumbled after him. His knees felt treacherous. He kept having the sensation that he was walking in running water, and an optical refraction displaced his legs in a most difficult way. And the stick in his hand was misbehaving: it swung outward, stabbed itself into the snow, tapped against fragments of rock, without Bonpland being able to do anything except follow it. The sun was already low. Humboldt slid down a scree slope. His hands and face were scraped bloody, and his coat torn, but the barometer didn't break.

Pain had its uses, he said through clenched teeth. For the moment, he could see clearly again. The dog had vanished.

He'd never been able to stand the dog, said Bonpland.

They had to make it down today, said Humboldt. The night would turn cold. They were confused. They wouldn't survive. He spat blood. He was sorry about the dog. He had loved it.

Since they were being candid right now, said Bonpland, and tomorrow everything could be blamed on altitude sickness, he wanted to know what Humboldt had been thinking up there on the snow bridge.

He had ordered himself not to think, said Humboldt. And so he hadn't thought anything.

Really nothing at all?

Absolutely nothing.

Bonpland blinked in the direction of the slowly fading honeycomb. Two of his companions were gone. He still had one to get rid of. But perhaps that wasn't even necessary. He had the suspicion that it might be himself.

The two of them, said Humboldt, had climbed the highest mountain in the world. That would remain a fact, whatever else happened in their lives.

Not all the way, said Bonpland.

Rubbish!

A person who climbed a mountain reached the peak. A person who didn't reach the peak hadn't climbed the mountain.

Humboldt stared at his bleeding hands and said nothing.

Up there on the bridge, said Bonpland, he had suddenly regretted that he had to go second.

That was only human, said Humboldt.

Not just because the one who went first would reach safety earlier. He had had strange fantasies. If he had been going first, something inside him would have liked to give the bridge a kick as soon as he was over on the other side. The wish had been strong.

Humboldt didn't reply. He seemed to be sunk in his own thoughts.

Bonpland's head hurt, and he felt feverish again. He was deadly tired. It would be a long time before he recovered from today. A man who traveled far, he said, learned many things. Some of them about himself.

Humboldt begged his pardon. Unfortunately he hadn't understood a word. The wind!

Bonpland said nothing for several seconds. Nothing important, he said, thankfully. Chatter. Just talk.

Well then, said Humboldt expressionlessly. No reason to dawdle!

Two hours later they came upon their waiting guides. Humboldt demanded the return of his letter and immediately tore it up. One could not be neglectful about these things. Nothing was more embarrassing than a farewell letter whose writer was still alive.

He didn't care, said Bonpland, holding his pounding head. They could keep his or throw it away. They could also send it if they wanted.

That night, huddled under a blanket against the driving snow, Humboldt wrote two dozen letters, in which he made Europe party to the news that he had climbed higher than any mortal who had ever existed. Carefully he sealed each one. Only then did he lose consciousness.

T
HE
G
ARDEN

Late in the evening, the professor knocked at the door of the manor house. A thin young servant opened up and said that Count von der Ohe zur Ohe was not receiving.

Gauss asked him to repeat the name.

The servant did so: Count Hinrich von der Ohe zur Ohe.

Gauss had to laugh.

The servant looked at him as if he'd stepped in a cowpat. The gracious gentleman's family had borne this name for a thousand years.

Germany was a funny little place, said Gauss. However, he was here to do the land survey. All obstacles were to be removed. The state must recompense Herr … He smiled. The state was obliged to buy several trees and a worthless shed from the count. A formality, it wouldn't take long.

That might be possible, said the servant. But not this evening.

Gauss looked down at his dirty shoes. He had feared as much. Good, then he would have to spend the night here, please prepare a room for him.

He didn't think there was room, said the servant.

Gauss removed his velvet cap, mopped his forehead, and fingered his collar. He felt sweaty and not very well. His stomach hurt. There must be a misunderstanding. He wasn't here as a supplicant. He was the head of the State Boundaries Commission and if he was turned away, when he came back he would have people with him. Was he making himself clear?

The servant took a step back.

Was he making himself clear?

Yes indeed, said the servant.

Yes indeed, Herr Professor!

Herr Professor, the servant said after him.

And now he wished to see the count.

The servant frowned so hard that his entire brow crumpled. He must have failed to make himself clear. The gracious gentleman had already retired. He was asleep!

Only for a moment, said Gauss.

The servant shook his head.

Sleep was not a fate. A sleeping man could be woken. The longer he had to stand here, the later it would be before the count got back to his featherbed, and his own mood would not be improving either. He was dog-tired.

Hoarsely, the servant commanded him to follow him.

He advanced so quickly with the candleholder that he seemed to be hoping he could run from Gauss. It would not have been hard: Gauss's feet hurt, the leather of his shoes was too stiff, the skin under his woolen shirt itched, and a searing sensation in his neck told him that he had got sunburn again. They went down a low corridor with faded tapestries. A maid with a pretty figure went past carrying a chamber pot, and Gauss looked after her longingly. They went down a flight of stairs, then up again, then down again. The layout must be intended to be confusing to visitors, and presumably succeeded in doing just that to people who lacked a sense of geometrical projection. Gauss estimated that they were now approximately twelve feet above and forty feet west of the front door, and were moving in a southwesterly direction. The servant knocked at a door, opened it, addressed a few words to the interior, and let Gauss enter. An old man in a dressing gown and wooden slippers was sitting in a rocking chair. He was tall, with hollow cheeks and piercing eyes.

Von der Ohe zur Ohe, a pleasure. What are you laughing at?

He wasn't laughing, said Gauss. He was the state land surveyor. He never laughed, and had merely wished to introduce himself and express his thanks for the hospitality.

The count asked if that was why he had been woken.

Precisely, said Gauss. And now he wished him a good night! Satisfied, he followed the servant down another staircase and along a particularly stuffy corridor. These people would never again treat him like a domestic!

His triumph didn't last long. The servant brought him to an appalling hole. It stank, the floor was scattered with rotting hay, the bed was a wooden plank, and the washing arrangements consisted of a rusty bucket of unclean water. No toilet to be seen.

He had already had quite some experiences, said Gauss. Two weeks ago a farmer had offered him a kennel. But that had been better than this.

That could be, said the servant, as he left. But this was all there was.

Groaning, Gauss made himself lie down on the plank bed. The pillow was hard and smelled bad. He put his cap on top, but that didn't help. For a long time sleep eluded him. His back hurt, the air was foul, he was afraid there might be ghosts, and as he did every evening, he missed Johanna. Fail to pay attention for a single moment and there you were with an official job, traipsing through the woods, and negotiating with farmers about their lopsided trees. Just this afternoon he had paid five times what it was worth for an old birch tree. It had taken forever for his assistants to saw through the obstinate trunk so that he could take bearings from Eugen's light signals with the theodolite. And of course the ass had begun by blinking in the wrong direction! Tomorrow they would meet up and he would have to work out how to get to the next junction in two straight lines maximum. This was now his profession. The book on astronomy was long since published, and he was on leave from the university. Nonetheless the work was well paid, and with a little ingenuity it was possible in various ways to earn a little extra on the side. With these thoughts he went to sleep.

Early in the morning he was awoken by a tormenting dream. He saw himself lying on the plank bed and dreaming that he was lying on the plank bed dreaming that he was lying on the plank bed and dreaming. Uneasily he sat up and realized immediately that he wasn't yet awake. Then he started switching realities from one second to the next, and then again, and none of them had anything better to offer than the same filthy room with hay on the floor and a bucket of water in the corner. Once there was a tall, shadowed figure standing in the door, and another time a dog lay dead in the corner, then a child in a wooden mask came wandering in by mistake, but before he could see it clearly, it was gone again. When finally he sat exhausted on the edge of the bed and looked up into the sunny morning sky, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had almost lost touch with the reality in which he really belonged. He splashed cold water on his face and thought of Eugen, whom he would meet that afternoon. Usually it improved his mood to be able to scream at him. He got dressed and went out yawning.

He walked through suites of rooms with paintings to which time had not been kind: earnest men, badly painted, the colors applied too thickly. Stained wooden furniture, dust everywhere. He paused in front of a mirror, and thought. He didn't like what he saw. He opened some drawers, but they were empty. He was relieved to find an iron-barred door into the garden.

This was laid out with astonishing care: palm trees, orchids, orange trees, bizarrely shaped cacti, and every variety of plant, ones Gauss had never even seen in pictures. Gravel crunched under his shoes and a liana brushed the cap from his head. It smelled of something sweet, and burst fruit lay scattered on the ground. The growth became thicker, the path narrowed, and he had to bend over as he walked. The prodigality! He could only hope that the place didn't have strange insects too. As he pushed his way between the trunks of two palms, his jacket got caught and he almost stumbled into a thorn bush. Then he was standing in a meadow. In an armchair, still in his nightshirt, hair every which way and feet bare, the count was sitting drinking tea.

Impressive, said Gauss.

In the old days it was much more beautiful, said the count. Gardening staff were expensive now, and the French occupation had destroyed a great deal. He'd only recently returned here. He had been in Switzerland, an émigré, and now things had changed for the moment. Would the surveyor not care to be seated?

Gauss looked around. There was only one chair, and the count was sitting in it. Not particularly, he said hesitantly.

Yes, so now, said the count. One could have the negotiations.

A mere formality, said Gauss. In order to have a clear view of the measuring point at Scharnhorst, he would have to fell three trees in the count's wood and tear down a shed that had obviously been standing empty for years.

Scharnhorst? Nobody could see that far!

Yes they could, said Gauss, provided they used concentrated light. He had developed an instrument which could send light signals over unimaginable distances. For the first time it made it possible to have communication between earth and sun.

Earth and sun, repeated the count.

Gauss smiled and nodded. He could see exactly what was going on in the old idiot's head now.

As for trees and shed, said the count, it was a question of compensation. The shed was essential. The trees were valuable.

Gauss sighed. He would have liked to sit down. How many of these conversations had he now had to have? Of course, he said wearily, but one shouldn't exaggerate. He knew perfectly well what some wood and a hut were worth. Right now in particular was no time to burden the state unreasonably.

Patriotism, said the count. Interesting. Particularly when it was being demanded by someone who had been a French official until very recently.

Gauss stared at him.

The count sipped his tea and asked him not to misunderstand him. He wasn't reproaching anyone. Times had been bad, and everyone had behaved according to his own possibilities.

On his account, said Gauss, Napoleon had refrained from bombarding Göttingen!

The count nodded. He didn't seem surprised. Not everyone had had the luck to be esteemed by the Corsican.

And almost no one had earned it either, said Gauss.

The count looked dreamily into his cup. It would seem that the surveyor was not as inexperienced in business dealings as he pretended.

Gauss asked how he should interpret this.

He was right, was he not, to assume that the surveyor would pay him in the usual coin of the realm?

Of course, said Gauss.

Then he must ask himself if these expenses of the state would not be reimbursed to the surveyor in gold. If this were indeed the case, there must be a pretty gain to be made from the exchange rate. One didn't have to be a mathematician to see it.

Gauss went red.

At least not the so-called Prince of Mathematicians, said the count, who could hardly fail to notice such a thing.

Gauss clasped his hands behind his back and looked at the orchids growing on the palm trees. None of it was against the law, he said tightly.

No doubt, said the count. He was sure the surveyor had verified this. Moreover he had a great admiration for the art of surveying. It was a peculiar activity, traveling around with instruments for months at a time.

Only in Germany. Do the same thing in the Cordilleras and you would be celebrated as a discoverer.

The count shook his head. It must be hard, all the same, particularly if one had a family at home. The surveyor had a family, yes? A good wife?

Gauss nodded. The sun seemed too bright and the plants were making him uneasy. He asked if they could discuss the sale of the trees. He had to move on, his time was very limited.

Not so very limited, said the count. If one had written the
Düqumtiones Arithmeticae
, one must presumably never have to hurry again.

Gauss looked at the count in astonishment.

Please, no unnecessary modesty, said the count. The section on dividing the circle was one of the most remarkable things he had ever read. He had found thoughts in it that even he had been able to learn from.

Gauss laughed out loud.

Yes, yes, said the count, he really meant it.

He was astonished, said Gauss, to meet a man with such interests here.

He would do better to speak of knowledge, said the count. His interests were very limited. But he had always considered it necessary to extend his knowledge beyond the limits of his interests. By the way, he had heard that the surveyor wished to say something to him.

Pardon?

It was some time ago. Burdens, annoyances. Even a formal complaint.

Gauss rubbed his forehead. He was beginning to feel hot, and he had no idea what this man was talking about.

Really not?

Gauss looked at him blankly.

Then not, said the count. And as for the trees, he would donate them for nothing.

And the shed?

That too.

But why, asked Gauss, and was shocked at himself. What a stupid mistake!

Did one always need reasons? For love of the state, as was suitable for a citizen. As a gesture of his esteem for the surveyor.

Gauss thanked him with a bow. He must leave now, his useless son was waiting, he had the long walk to Kalbsloh ahead of him.

The count returned the salutation with a fluttering gesture of his thin hand.

On the way to the manor house, Gauss thought for a moment that he was disoriented. He concentrated, then went right, left, right again, through the iron-barred door, then right again twice, through another door, and was in the entrance hall from the day before. The servant was already waiting, opened the front door, and apologized for the room. He hadn't known whom he was dealing with. That had just been the room for passing travelers where they lodged riffraff and vagabonds. It was not at all bad upstairs. There were mirrors and washbasins and even bedclothes.

Riffraff and vagabonds, Gauss echoed.

Yes, said the servant expressionlessly Scum and lowlife. And he shut the door gently.

Gauss took a deep breath. He was relieved to be out of there. He had to get away at once, before the madman regretted having given his consent. So he'd read the
Disquisitiones!
He had never become accustomed to being famous. Even back then, at the worst point of the war, when an adjutant had arrived bringing greetings from Napoleon, he had thought there was some misunderstanding. And indeed perhaps there had been; he would never know. He strode quickly from the slope into the wood.

In the most irritating fashion, the trees he had marked yesterday were in perfect hiding. It was sultry, he was sweating, and there were too many flies. Every tree that had to go had been marked with a cross in chalk. Now he had to put another one on them, as a sign that he had permission to have them felled. Eugen had asked recently if it didn't upset him, the trees were so old and tall, and they gave such generous shade. The boy was as sensitive as he was slow. A tragedy: he had been so determined to nourish the gifts of his children, to make learning easy for them, and to call out everything in them that was exceptional. But then there had been nothing exceptional to call out. They were not even particularly intelligent. Joseph was making good as an officer candidate, but he took after Johanna. Wilhelmine was admittedly obedient and kept the house clean. But Eugen?