Page 21 of There Are Rivers in the Sky
—O— ARTHUR
By the River Thames, 1871
O n a balmy day in June, Arthur turns into Piccadilly. He walks fast, with a vigilance that he cannot escape, his eyes on the pavement. He can hear a barrel organ in the distance, whistling the popular tune ‘In the Sweet By and By’. Recently he has started to grow a beard, but his fingers, unused to finding so much hair on his face, keep straying back to touch the whiskery bristles. In his pocket, he carries a silk handkerchief scented with fragrance. These days the fashion is for musk and ambergris, a blend of aromas that he relishes, in spite of its exorbitant price. He has been reading tablets doggedly for many years now, and working without respite, but he has yet to be promoted.
The perfume he is wearing today is something he helped to compose. On a Mesopotamian tablet, thousands of years old, he came across a formula by a female parfumier called Tapputi. Without telling anyone in the British Museum, Arthur asked an embalmer on Regent Street to re-create the ancient concoction, using cane oil, myrrh, crushed almonds, horseradish, spices and sundry flowers. Tapputi’s notes did not specify which flowers exactly and so Arthur chose violets, patchouli and almond blossom. The result was intoxicating, and this is what he has now applied judiciously to his handkerchief.
So much has changed in his life over the past few years, but the one thing that has remained constant is this acute loneliness, which he carries everywhere with him, a solitude that never leaves his side, the one companion that drives all others away. He misses his younger brother, who, after being sent to the countryside to live with an elderly aunt, settled down in Yorkshire, not wishing ever to return to London. He misses his mother, whom he hasn’t seen in four years, not since she was confined to a sanatorium after spending a whole night ranting and wailing in the street. People complained she was not right in the head. Both the neighbours and his own father testified that Arabella was exhibiting symptoms of insanity and hysteria, and not long after she was whisked away. Although Arthur has repeatedly written to the directors of the institution, asking if he may come to see her, each time his request was declined, with the excuse that it would be too taxing for the patient. And as for his father, he has not seen him in a long while. It appears to Arthur that his entire family has unravelled, like the strands of a rope that has frayed over time. The only constant is his work – the tablets of Mesopotamia.
As he passes St James’s Church, a torrent of sounds gushes by his side: hundreds of wheels from hansom cabs, carriages, calashes, barouches and drays spinning at once, vendors hawking their wares from their handcarts and children pushing barrows twice their size … Amidst the clatter and congestion, he catches the shout of a newspaper boy:
‘The author is dead! Mr Dickens has gone to meet ’is Maker!’
Arthur gasps. He buys a newspaper and stares intently at the photo of the novelist, those eyes so familiar to him, penetrating and thoughtful but also faintly amused, absorbing the sheer absurdity of this world. He reads the article over and over. Accompanying the piece is a drawing of the author’s study at Gads Hill Place, with an empty chair, slightly askew, as if only just that second vacated, its leather still warmed by the body that had spun so many stories in its embrace.
Sadness overtakes him. There are extraordinary people who appear unexpectedly on our paths, and, just as suddenly, they disappear, leaving their indelible marks and a sense of regret. Brief and bright, like a match striking a flame in the dark, they heat the damp kindling of our hearts and then they are gone.
As Arthur folds the paper, further down the page a small article catches his eye: a calf was born in London zoo. The hippopotamuses that were sent by an Ottoman pasha to England – Obaysch and Adhela – have finally produced a baby. It has been named Guy Fawkes. There it is, tucked into the same frame, one life coming to an end, another just beginning.
That day, as soon as Arthur arrives at the British Museum, he pulls from the shelves a random crate of broken tablets, finds a jar to use as a chamber pot and locks his door so that no one can enter and he cannot go out; and in this state he devotes himself fully to his work, for he knows that if he does not apply himself, the despondency in his heart will swallow him whole.
The following afternoon, his hair dishevelled, Arthur opens the door, his eyes brimming like the blue skies after a hard rain. Moving about briskly in the manner of someone who has just risen from a delirious sleep, he sends out word that he urgently needs to speak to everyone, including the trustees – especially them! His behaviour is baffling. All these years he has gone to great lengths to avoid even the most basic conversations, but now he cannot wait to gather everyone together. So they flock to his room – the trustees, the curators, the clerks and a few art students – impatient to know what Arthur might have to say. They are amazed to find him with his cheeks aglow, his tie loosened and his gaze burning fiercely, looking utterly deranged.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming at once,’ exclaims Arthur, opening his hands. ‘I am so pleased to see you all!’
His audience exchange glances, and a few people roll their eyes, none of which Arthur notices.
‘Something extraordinary has happened and I cannot wait to share it with you!’ His heart skips a beat inside his chest as he adds, ‘I’ve reason to believe we are on the brink of an astonishing discovery.’
His face a canvas of emotions, Arthur then translates a section from the Epic of Gilgamesh , reading out the lines he has deciphered.
Ever the river has risen and brought us the Flood,
The mayfly floating on the water …
He tells them that he chanced upon a highly interesting tablet: it offers an account of a deluge so catastrophic that it consumes kingdoms, and of a ship stranded on top of a mountain sheltering animals of all kinds. He describes how after days of drifting in tempestuous waters, those on board send out a bird to see if there is dry land nearby. The story is very familiar.
‘Are you trying to say that you have found an ancient description of Noah’s Ark?’ asks one of the trustees.
Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair, smooths his moustache back into place, aware of the enormity of what he is about to say. ‘Gentlemen, the Epic of Gilgamesh predates the Bible. Bear in mind that this poem was handed down orally for centuries before being recorded by scribes and kept in the library of King Ashurbanipal. This means that the Mesopotamian narrative of the Flood is actually much older than the Ark of Noah in the Holy Scriptures. I leave it to you to decide as to the implications of this finding.’
The silence that follows, though brief, feels suspended with tension – until the same trustee clears his throat and says, ‘I must confess, my good fellow, that you have made a remarkable discovery.’
‘Indeed, momentous!’ another adds.
One by one, they walk up to him and shake his hand, commending him for his astonishing achievement. Last in line is the Keeper of Oriental Antiquities, the one person in this institution who has supported him from the beginning. And when Arthur, this introverted and bashful soul, sees Dr Birch there grinning with pride, he does something wholly unexpected. He runs to the old man and pulls him into a patchouli-scented embrace.
His excitement, though ungentlemanly, proves contagious. Spilling into the marble corridors like a breaking wave, it gushes through the panelled walls and arched doorways, washes over the Iron Age amphoras, Chinese bronzes, Egyptian mummies and human skeletal remains, Greek friezes, Roman relics, Byzantine coins, Renaissance engravings; it drenches the manuscripts of Galileo, Michelangelo, Newton, Washington, Cromwell … ultimately reaching the Assyrian section, where the lamassus are stationed, surges over their stone hooves and wings, and from there pours on to the streets of London.
The timing could not be more opportune. Darwin has recently published The Descent of Man , building on the immense success of his previous book, On the Origin of Species. Advances in geology, biology, botany and chemistry have deepened the schism between science and religion, academia and the Church. The latest findings in palaeontology, archaeology and geology all appear to overturn the traditional 4004 BC date of Creation taught by theologians. Suspicion is growing that the earth is in fact much, much older.
These days it is argued that humans, far from being unique and superior to other creatures, are just one amongst diverse species that inhabit the earth. The world, no longer preordained, seems to be in flux. It is against these shifting sentiments that Arthur has decoded the Flood Tablet. Some people interpret the discovery as a perfect illustration of the mythical nature of religion. Noah’s Ark is clearly nothing more than a fable passed down generations. The similarities between the Mesopotamian narrative and the biblical account – a world-engulfing deluge, the construction of the coracle to help humankind and the animal kingdom survive the rising waters, the bird sent out to look for dry land – all indicate that the holy script is merely a retelling of made-up stories from days of yore.
But for others the reverse holds: Arthur’s discovery is a confirmation of the veracity of the Good Book. Mesopotamia, they say, is the cradle of theological truth. Somewhere over there the Garden of Eden blossomed and burst into life; Abraham, the father of the faithful, was born; the Tower of Babel rose to heaven and then mouldered into pieces, dividing humankind into tribes that could never understand one another again. Daniel, the interpreter of dreams, was thrown into a lions’ den, and his three friends walked through the fire unscathed. It is where everything begins, the tale of humankind, and at a time of spirited discussions on the origin of species, this remote land seems to hold the keys to the deepest questions as to the meaning of life and the existence of God.
The argument, by no means limited to England, reverberates across the European continent and ignites on the other side of the Atlantic. The New York Times publishes an article outlining the various narratives of the Flood side by side, and posits the theory that the biblical one is perhaps ‘legendary like the rest’. A poem whose existence was unknown until yesterday – excavated in Nineveh, hauled on ships to London and now partially translated by a young man from the slums of Chelsea – is today the talk of millions of people around the globe.
Of all the new and unexpected things that happen to Arthur in the aftermath of his discovery of the Flood Tablet, the one that most astonishes him is the public’s fascination with the subject. For years he had assumed that no one outside the narrow field of Assyrian studies would be remotely interested in his work. But the revelation that a story strikingly similar to Noah’s Ark is depicted on an artefact from Mesopotamia has swiftly captured the collective imagination, sparking furious debate among conservatives and liberals alike.
All of a sudden, and much to his horror, Arthur finds himself – just like the Flood Tablet itself – a curiosity. Every day strangers come to the British Museum, asking about him. He takes the back streets on the way to and from work, keeping his head bowed, hoping to maintain a low profile. But that, apparently, will not be possible for long.
‘You have received an invitation,’ says the Keeper of Oriental Antiquities one afternoon, waving a letter with an embossed, gilded crest.
‘Me?’
‘Congratulations, you are invited to give a lecture at the Society of Biblical Archaeology.’
All the colour drains from Arthur’s face. ‘But I am no good at that sort of thing. Could you not do it?’
The elderly scholar smiles. ‘Oh, the members do not want me, I can assure you. They want you – the prodigy from humble beginnings! You will have the most esteemed audience – scholars, diplomats, journalists, bishops … that’s not all. The prime minister himself is coming! This must be the first time a British prime minister will attend a lecture on Mesopotamia. Are you not excited?’
But Arthur, feeling overwhelmed and nauseous at the thought of standing on a public stage, has already left the room.
The day before the lecture, anxious that he might not wake up in time, Arthur Smyth asks a knocker-up to rouse him. But he needn’t have worried, for sleep is hardly possible. He tosses and turns all night, alert at every little sound. When, shortly after six, the man raps on his windowpane with a long stick Arthur is already up and dressed.
Despite his pounding heart, he tries to remain composed. He polishes his shoes, combs his moustache, pomades his hair and dabs eau de cologne on his cuffs. A pricy blend for the special occasion – bergamot, lavender and lemon oil. Gestures that usually calm him. Still, when he arrives at the Society of Biblical Archaeology, he takes the stairs two at a time.
The prime minister, William Ewart Gladstone, a man with both strong liberal views and a profound religious sense, a statesman of remarkable learning who is said to have read thousands of books in Modern and Classical languages, is seated in the front row. His expression is inscrutable.
Arthur bows to him and thanks the members of the Society of Biblical Archaeology for the opportunity to present his findings. No sooner does he say this, however, than his voice falters. All these people with their privileged education are here to listen to him – a novice with barely any schooling. The thought cuts into him like a scalpel into flesh. For a second, his throat closes up. What is he doing amongst them when anyone can see that he does not belong? The whole thing feels like a terrible mistake. Seized by a sudden urge to walk out, he almost steps out from behind the lectern. As he tries to steady his breathing, he glances at the piece of the Flood Tablet he brought with him. He has memorized it line by line. It is worn and cracked, like his mother’s hands. He wants to make her proud.
‘My lords, gentlemen, the story of humanity cannot be written without the story of water.’ Arthur clutches the edge of the lectern to stop himself from trembling. ‘Yet we hardly pay sufficient regard to this remarkable compound on which our lives and our futures depend. The findings that I intend to present to you today concern rivers and rainstorms, and the memory of an ancient flood. That memory, distressing as it was, has never left the people of the land that I will be talking about – Mesopotamia. As many here will already know, this word, in Greek, means “between rivers”.’
Arthur begins by describing the region, for he has noticed that, captivated though they may be by the idea of ‘biblical lands’, not many in England can locate it on a map. It remains ambiguous in the public mind – faraway, foreign and largely fictitious. He goes on to set out how it has been home to myriad civilizations. He chronicles the extraordinary cities and temples its people have built, the enormous advances they have made in architecture, poetry, mathematics, warfare and, especially, irrigation.
His voice rising with excitement, he tells them that thousands of years ago, in Nineveh, there lived a remarkable king called Ashurbanipal. Unlike any other ruler, before or after, he was devoted to the pursuit of knowledge. To this end he amassed a monumental library, ordering his emissaries to gather tablets from far and wide. Gilgamesh is merely one of the many stories in this library – an important one nonetheless. It was an essential part of the oral tradition, central to the collective imagination long before it was written down on clay around 1800 BC , all of which sets the date of the epic almost a thousand years before the biblical story of Noah’s Ark, nearly a millennium before the Book of Genesis.
A thin film of perspiration on his brow, Arthur explains how Ashurbanipal’s library was burned when the city was attacked by its enemies. The destruction was total, palaces and temples reduced to naught. The inhabitants were slaughtered, treasures looted, buildings razed to the ground. But, being made of river mud and water, cuneiform tablets proved astonishingly resilient. While flames can easily consume papyrus and parchment, and devour rolls of paper, they cannot harm clay. Quite the opposite, in fact: the fire only baked and hardened them further. This is how they have survived under the earth while centuries have come and gone.
Arthur finishes his speech by detailing how for many years now he has lovingly devoted himself to the translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh . He is committed to the rendition of the Flood Tablet – the eleventh in a series of twelve. But it is imperative to remember that the narrative he has deciphered is by no means complete. He has been piecing together shards of words, in full awareness that there are lacunae in the poem. Seventeen lines in total are missing. It is his greatest wish, he concludes, to find them someday.
The applause that follows is hearty, genuine. Blushing as he bows, Arthur scans his audience. He catches sight of the Keeper of Oriental Antiquities perched on the edge of a row, clapping like the proud father he never had. To his surprise Mr Evans has also come. His previous employer must have joined the lecture late, slipping into an empty seat at the back. As he regards Arthur, there is nothing but warmth in his eyes. Arthur wishes Mr Bradbury could have been here, too. He wishes he could have summoned his mother and his brother and his deceased brother and the toshers to whom he owes his name. How gratifying it would have been to welcome them into this eminent crowd – all the people, dead or alive, he has come to love since he was a little boy, the people who shaped him, changed him, made him the man he is today.
The prime minister rises to his feet and walks to the lectern, only to launch into a lengthy speech. He offers his congratulations to Arthur, praising his hard work and highlighting the importance of the discovery. Ignoring the question as to whether it venerates or controverts the Bible, he goes on to praise Homer, whom he calls the friend of his youth, the companion of his middle age, ‘from whom I hope never to part as long as I have any faculty of breath left in my body’. His talk has little to do with Mesopotamia and even less with the Epic of Gilgamesh , but no one seems to mind. For the audience is buzzing with questions for Arthur. Already so many people have raised their hands.
‘Mr Smyth,’ shouts a journalist. ‘Would you be interested in going to Nineveh to seek the missing verses in the Flood Tablet?’
‘Oh, that is my dream,’ says Arthur, without a second of hesitation. ‘Ever since I was a boy I have wanted to travel to Nineveh.’
‘Are you saying you are ready to excavate in Ottoman territory, sir, under the sultan’s dominion?’ another journalist calls out.
Arthur falters. He hasn’t given the logistics any thought. He says, ‘If I could garner support for the endeavour, I’d happily attempt to do so.’
‘Do I take it that you would like the government to provide the means for your expedition?’ asks another journalist.
Before Arthur can reply, the prime minister deflects the comment. ‘Gentlemen – if I may interpolate – I should not wish to encourage the dangerous notion that it is the duty of a government to engage in the patronage of archaeological initiatives. It has been the distinction and the pride of this great nation to do very many things by individual effort. A visit to Nineveh should be the child of private enterprise and not, I aver, that of the government.’
More questions ensue about politics and politicians, none of which interests Arthur in the least. He starts to sweat. His mouth is dry. He can no longer be certain that the lecture has gone well. In this moment all he wants is to leave this place and go back to work. But, just as he is plotting his escape, a journalist at the front raises his hand.
‘Mr Smyth! Will you be celebrating your success with anyone special this evening?’
‘No, sir, I shall not,’ says Arthur.
‘Could you tell us why you are not yet married? Our readers would like to know.’
Arthur gasps. The question is so unexpected that he struggles to find a response. It does not go unnoticed that a deep blush spreads from his neck to his forehead.
‘I … just … do not have time for such things.’
‘Are you saying love is trivial?’ asks another journalist.
‘I am not here to t-t-talk about love,’ Arthur stammers, though his voice is now noticeably strained.
The next day he is in all the newspapers, with photographs and drawings of him splashed across the front pages. His expression is calm and serious, but, upon a closer look, his eyes are seen to stare in discomfort, unable to disguise that he cannot believe this is happening to him. Some of his words have been altered and twisted, whilst details from his life have been magnified and embellished. One paper calls him an ‘intellectual picklock’, claiming that he is known as much for his eccentric ways as for his coruscating mind. Another paper embarrassingly mentions that he took off his clothes in excitement when he first discovered portions of the Epic of Gilgamesh . An editor expresses surprise at Arthur’s humility and timidity, given the sensational role he is playing in the maelstrom of debate as to whether the Old Testament originated in Babylonian lore – and whether the earth was created by God or emerged as a random occurrence. Meanwhile, a women’s magazine names him ‘one of London’s most eligible bachelors’, urging young ladies not to overlook this rising star in archaeology. It is not only the lost portion of the Flood Tablet that he needs to find, the article proclaims, but what has clearly been missing in his life: love.
In his small room in the British Museum, Arthur reads all the press commentary, disconcerted both by their compliments and their carping. One newspaper has applied the phrase ‘the genius from the slums’ to him. That makes him pause. He has not forgotten what his old headmaster had said: No genius ever came from the slums. But Arthur feels neither gratified nor proud, only nervous.
He leaves his room and approaches a window overlooking the South Entrance on Great Russell Street. In front of his eyes the city flows, a rumbling of sounds, hordes of strangers gossiping about him, saying things he does not wish to hear.