the Pyrenees, which suggested they were widely distributed. Guilford was fascinated and spent much of the remainder of the day at Erasmus’s kraal, despite the pervasive odor, which was one of the fur snakes’ less attractive points.
The animals resembled, Guilford thought, not so much snakes as grubs — bloated, pale “faces” with cow-like eyes, cylindrical bodies, six legs obscured under ropes of matted hair. As a resource they were a virtual Sears-Roebuck catalog: fur for clothing, hides for tanning, fat for tallow, and a bland but edible meat. Snake furs were the Rhine’s staple of commerce, and snake fur, Sullivan asserted, had even made an appearance in New York fashion circles. Guilford supposed the smell didn’t survive the shearing, or who would want such a coat, even in a New York winter?
More important, the fur snakes made workable pack animals, without which the survey of the Alps would be a great deal more difficult. Preston Finch had already retired to Erasmus’ hut to negotiate for the purchase of fifteen or twenty of the animals. And Erasmus must drive a hard bargain, since by the time Diggs had his mess tent set up Finch and Erasmus were still bargaining — raised voices were audible.
At last Finch stormed out of the sod hut, ignoring dinner. “Horrible man,” he muttered. “Partisan sympathizer. This is hopeless.”
The Navy pilot and crew remained aboard the Weston , preparing to sail back down the Rhine with specimens, collections, field notes, letters home. Guilford sat with Sullivan, Keck, and the frontiersman Tom Compton on a bluff above the river, enjoying plates of Digby’s reconstituted corned-beef hash and watching the sun wester.
“The trouble with Preston Finch,” Sullivan said, “is that he doesn’t know how to yield a point.”
“Nor does Erasmus,” Tom Compton said. “He’s not a Partisan, just a general-purpose jackass. Spent three years in Jeffersonville brokering hides, but nobody could tolerate the man’s company for long. He’s not made for human companionship.”
“The animals are interesting,” Guilford said. “Like thoats, in the Burroughs novel. Martian mules.”
“Well then maybe you should take a picture of ’em,” Tom Compton said, and rolled his eyes.
By morning it was obvious negotiations had collapsed altogether. Finch wouldn’t speak to Erasmus, though he begged the pilot of the Weston to hold up at least another day. Sullivan, Gillvany, and Robinson went specimen-collecting in the forests near Erasmus’ grazing pastures, obviously hoping the issue would by some miracle be settled before they returned to camp. And Guilford set up his camera by the kraal.
Which brought Erasmus stomping out of his lopsided sod hut like an angry dwarf. Guilford had not had any personal introduction to the herder and he tried to refrain from flinching.
Erasmus — not much above five foot tall, his face lost in Biblical curls of beard, dressed in patched denim overalls and a snakeskin serape, stopped a careful distance from Guilford, frowning and breathing noisily. Guilford nodded politely and went about the business of adjusting his tripod. Let the Old Man of the Mountain make the first move.
It took time, but Erasmus eventually spoke. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“Photographing the animals, if that’s all right.”
“You might have asked first.”
Guilford didn’t respond. Erasmus breathed a few minutes more, then. “So that’s a camera, is it?”
“Yes sir,” Guilford said, “a Kodak plate camera.”
“You take plate photos? Like in National Geographic ?”
“Just about exactly like.”
“You know that magazine — National Geographic ?”
“I’ve worked for it.”
“Eh? When?”
“Last year. Deep Creek Canyon. Montana.”
“Those were your pictures? December 1919?”
Guilford gave the snake herder a longer look. “Are you a member of the Society, Mr., uh, Erasmus?”
“Just call me Erasmus.
The animals resembled, Guilford thought, not so much snakes as grubs — bloated, pale “faces” with cow-like eyes, cylindrical bodies, six legs obscured under ropes of matted hair. As a resource they were a virtual Sears-Roebuck catalog: fur for clothing, hides for tanning, fat for tallow, and a bland but edible meat. Snake furs were the Rhine’s staple of commerce, and snake fur, Sullivan asserted, had even made an appearance in New York fashion circles. Guilford supposed the smell didn’t survive the shearing, or who would want such a coat, even in a New York winter?
More important, the fur snakes made workable pack animals, without which the survey of the Alps would be a great deal more difficult. Preston Finch had already retired to Erasmus’ hut to negotiate for the purchase of fifteen or twenty of the animals. And Erasmus must drive a hard bargain, since by the time Diggs had his mess tent set up Finch and Erasmus were still bargaining — raised voices were audible.
At last Finch stormed out of the sod hut, ignoring dinner. “Horrible man,” he muttered. “Partisan sympathizer. This is hopeless.”
The Navy pilot and crew remained aboard the Weston , preparing to sail back down the Rhine with specimens, collections, field notes, letters home. Guilford sat with Sullivan, Keck, and the frontiersman Tom Compton on a bluff above the river, enjoying plates of Digby’s reconstituted corned-beef hash and watching the sun wester.
“The trouble with Preston Finch,” Sullivan said, “is that he doesn’t know how to yield a point.”
“Nor does Erasmus,” Tom Compton said. “He’s not a Partisan, just a general-purpose jackass. Spent three years in Jeffersonville brokering hides, but nobody could tolerate the man’s company for long. He’s not made for human companionship.”
“The animals are interesting,” Guilford said. “Like thoats, in the Burroughs novel. Martian mules.”
“Well then maybe you should take a picture of ’em,” Tom Compton said, and rolled his eyes.
By morning it was obvious negotiations had collapsed altogether. Finch wouldn’t speak to Erasmus, though he begged the pilot of the Weston to hold up at least another day. Sullivan, Gillvany, and Robinson went specimen-collecting in the forests near Erasmus’ grazing pastures, obviously hoping the issue would by some miracle be settled before they returned to camp. And Guilford set up his camera by the kraal.
Which brought Erasmus stomping out of his lopsided sod hut like an angry dwarf. Guilford had not had any personal introduction to the herder and he tried to refrain from flinching.
Erasmus — not much above five foot tall, his face lost in Biblical curls of beard, dressed in patched denim overalls and a snakeskin serape, stopped a careful distance from Guilford, frowning and breathing noisily. Guilford nodded politely and went about the business of adjusting his tripod. Let the Old Man of the Mountain make the first move.
It took time, but Erasmus eventually spoke. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“Photographing the animals, if that’s all right.”
“You might have asked first.”
Guilford didn’t respond. Erasmus breathed a few minutes more, then. “So that’s a camera, is it?”
“Yes sir,” Guilford said, “a Kodak plate camera.”
“You take plate photos? Like in National Geographic ?”
“Just about exactly like.”
“You know that magazine — National Geographic ?”
“I’ve worked for it.”
“Eh? When?”
“Last year. Deep Creek Canyon. Montana.”
“Those were your pictures? December 1919?”
Guilford gave the snake herder a longer look. “Are you a member of the Society, Mr., uh, Erasmus?”
“Just call me Erasmus.
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