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In the summer of 1893, the dean of the university came to me. It had been a long semester. Only a season had gone by since an unfortunate accident had taken my right arm. At that time, memories of the lady I would have married still ghosted my thoughts.
I was taking the afternoon to organize my belongings in my office. Though I'd been in that office for a year, I still had boxes of books, curios, and practical supplies stacked against the wall. I was fretting over where to place my rather large collection of mounted insects when a light knock diverted my attention. The door was open, as I customarily left it, and the knock was only a courtesy. I turned to find the dean standing there, a sort of sympathetic smile on his face. The office was a right mess, and I stood like a survivor amongst rubble.
“Luther, how are you?” I greeted him with a sheepish smile.
“Jonathan,” he returned. He seemed to take in the room. “I see you're redecorating.”
“It's been a year,” I said by way of explanation. “It's about time I finally moved my things out of boxes.” I placed the case of scarab beetles—gorgeous multi-colored specimens—on a shelf and turned to him. “Can I help you?”
“I was thinking we could grab a bit of lunch. There's a matter I'd like to discuss with you.”
“Of course,” I said, setting aside the rag I'd been using to wipe the cases. I'd a bit of a kink in my neck from standing with my head bowed for so long and found myself eager to escape the labor, self-imposed as it was. I combed my hair back, settled the hat on my head and drew a long glove over my right arm. Though it was impossible to conceal the bulk of the mechanical prosthetic, nor the shape of the brace that secured it in place over my upper arm and shoulder, the glove gave me a modicum of privacy in public.
We strolled companionably to the pub across the street, a local haunt of students and professors, and lounged over drinks and light fare. At length, our polite discourse about the weather, students, and the food came to an end. Luther's face settled into an expression of pensiveness.
“John, have you ever given thought to traveling abroad?” he asked, somewhat abruptly.
“Of course,” I said.
“Serious thought.”
“Well, yes. I can't imagine who hasn't. I have thought of touring the Americas or the Far East. And it isn't as if I have—Well, it's not like I have family to tie me here. I suppose I never got around to seriously planning a holiday.”
The furrow of his eyebrows deepened. “What would you say to a trip to the Galapagos? Darwin's old stomping grounds.”
I imagine my eyebrows jumped up like rabbits. “Oh! Well, with classes starting soon I can't afford to take holiday…”
“It wouldn't be a holiday,” he said. “Rather, field work abroad. Under the employ of the university, of course.”
My stomach tightened. “Well! I couldn't—For how long?”
“A year, maybe two. You might find that you quite like it.”
I fell silent to ruminate. Luther sat quiet and tense, awaiting a response. “This isn't an offer, is it?” I looked up at him. “That is to say, I don't have a choice, do I?”
He shook his head slowly. “Jonathan—We think it might be good if you retired from the public view. For a little while, at least.”
