0.
The unexpected name of Sir Percy Whatnot Sterling Bishop Sterling Whatnot Percy burst upon the insular culture of London academia in a flash of grandiose, well-funded activity in May of 1842. His announcement of a new Publishing Society devoted to the Mathematics of Leonardo of Fibonacci was a most welcome addition to the book clubs and text publication societies springing up to offer, by subscription, the promise of at least one exciting volume of scholarly edition of academic interest per year. Londoners, whether or not they were formally associated with a college or university, flocked to join these clubs. Then they flocked to their Gentlemen’s Clubs where they discussed, over after-dinner brandy and cigars, the tremendously gratifying opportunity to await the delivery of another elegant, leather-bound volume to add to their library shelves.
The leather-bound volumes were placed carefully on library shelves without, in most cases, being read. There were even a certain number of Publication Society members who were honest enough with themselves to admit that they were never going to read the “Archives of Town Assemblies in West Cornwall, 1622-1673” or the “Treatise on the Flora and Fauna of the Northern Russian Steppe”. The main point for many seemed to be the opportunity to boast, in their clubs, about the latest publication society prospectus they had received, and to speculate about the frequency of their anticipated publications. The pleasure, real or feigned, of actually perusing their new acquisitions was a very minor topic, typically broached only when there had been no new announcements from the Explorers Club to marvel over and no surprising discoveries from the Royal Society to pretend that one understood completely.
Sir Percy was said to be a man in early middle age about whom very little was known absolutely. He was much discussed, and in spite (or because) of a positive dearth of first-person accounts of actually meeting the chap, rumors abounded. Roger Bottomsly explained in hushed tones to his cronies in the Carnelian Club that Percy was in possession of virtually limitless wealth due to years spent in South Africa, where he was the majority owner of several diamond mines. Samuel Roysker, leaning against the bar in the Heliotrope Club, told all present (Roysker habitually spoke very loudly; claiming partial deafness due to straying too close to cannon fire in the war) that Sir Percy was a member of the families behind the British East India Company, and had “thousands of pounds per year”.
Meanwhile, in the Greige, a club priding itself on its conservative membership, Sir Wilfred Blaine pontificated that Sir Percy harkened from among the oldest of British families and owned vast country estates in the west of England as well as in The Colonies. When Bosworth Jones was foolish enough to inquire just which colonies might contain the Percy family holdings, Sir Wilfred huffed through his impressive mustachios and replied “All of them, my good man. All of them.”
As for Leonardo of Fibonacci, few had heard of the fellow. And of those, an even smaller number had any notion of what his mathematics might entail. Two who did, however, were Bartholomew Crince and Charles Bellows, two young colleagues teaching at Cambridge. As young professors whose families were of the merchant class, they lacked the funds to join any of the better London gentlemen’s clubs or subscribe to any text publication societies. They were not particularly inconvenienced by this, however. As Cambridge faculty members they were afforded admission to the college’s library, and by wearing their scholar’s robes they were able to visit the halls — including the libraries — of any sister colleges or universities they wished. They both lectured on maths, and pooled their funds for an annual visit to Heidelberg, where they spent their holidays poring over the latest mathematical treatises that hadn’t yet been published in London.
“Fibonacci, that’s the chap with the sequence 1,1,2,3,5,8 and so on, I expect?” said Crince.
“Believe so,” replied Bellows. “The Golden Mean is hiding in the sequence, don’t you know.”
“You don’t suppose,” added Crince, “that we might subscribe to this new Society? It would be quite nice to be among the first to receive those volumes.”
“So it would. The cost is not beyond us.”
“I’ve some funds saved aside that would suffice.”
“As do I. Yes, my friend, let us proceed.”
And thus the Fibonacci Society listed a new member, possibly the only one (actually two) looking forward to actually reading what it produced.
1.
Several weeks later, Bellows stopped Crince in the hallway. “Bart,” he said, panting slightly (he had run all the way from his room), “you’ll not believe this.” He brandished a flyer he was clutching.
“What is it?”
“There’s a second society; the ‘Fibonacci Text Publication Club’.”
“How can that be? We know everyone in London whose work they might publish, and they’ve all told us the Fibonacci Society has their next papers.”
“I know not. But we can only discover what they have to offer if we subscribe. See here, the cost is not extravagant…”
The Fibonacci Text Publication Club acquired a new membership account.
In the Heliotrope Club, the news was not so much about the Fibonacci Text Publication Club as about its founder. Who was, once again, Sir Percy. “Why d’you suppose he’s done two of them on the same subject?” asked Roysker of no one in particular. “Are there so many Fibonacci scholars now? Who is the fellow, eh?” There was much commotion as club members inquired of one another, learning through much harrumphing that in fact no one knew. They had all, nonetheless, subscribed.
The reaction in the Greige was more dignified, but much the same. Confusion, but agreement that of course, to subscribe was quite the thing to do.
The Fibonacci Society surprised everyone by releasing its first volume far sooner than was customary for a new book club. It was a handsome volume destined to sit for decades (or longer, depending on the vagaries of family fortunes) gently and quietly gathering dust. But one book was read eagerly.
“I find this bit quite fascinating,” said Bellows, pointing out a passage to Crince.
“Formulae of recursion…” repeated Crince. “There’s something in that, I’d wager.”
“There is,” agreed Bellows, “and you mention a wager. So look at this formula. If we apply the outcome value and recurse…”
1.
Bellows and Crince had been working on new ideas based on their study of their Fibonacci Society volume for a few months, testing out notions about wagers, bets, and predictions by referring daily to the Times — unusual for scholars, who were expected to take a longer view than your typical businessman or merchant. Still, the academic community could be tolerant of a great deal of eccentricity in certain areas, and lecturing in mathematics brought with it a certain degree of anonymity. If the scholars in classics were (or at least considered themselves to be) at the top of the academic pyramid, Crince and Bellows were near the bottom, and generally ignored.
But it was their perusal of the Times — which they looked to in order to gather fresh information with which to check their predictions and discover bases for making new ones — that brought them a bit of news that was both puzzling and intriguing.
“That oddly-named fellow who founded the Fibonacci Society,” said Bellows, “what was his name?”
“Percy, I think,” said Crince. “Sir Percy? His full name was a bit longer.”
“It was Sir Percy Whatnot Sterling Bishop Sterling Whatnot Percy. Was it?”
“Quite right, to my recollection. Amusing name, that. Bit of recursion there. What about him?”
“He’s founded another text publishing society.”
“Not having to do with Fibonacci, surely?”
“No, we would have received a flyer about that, I believe. No, this time it’s about publishing societies.”
“Well the Fibonacci Society is certainly one of those. As is that other one; the Publication Club.”
“No, this is a…well perhaps it’s a second-order publishing society.’
“How so, Charlie?”
“He’s just opened the ‘Society for Publishing Texts Devoted to the Study of Publishing Texts Society’.”
“How’s that? A Society Society?”
“Quite.”
“Nothing about maths, then?”
“Would appear not.”
“Right. And what of the shipping arrivals, we must check those against our expectations.”
The reactions in the Gentlemen’s Clubs were somewhat more varied.
2.
The Carnelian Club was noisier than usual. Roger Bottomsly, as usual, was in the thick of it, standing with a drink in the midst of a circle of cronies (all holding drinks) and proclaiming that Sir Percy’s newly announced “Society for Publishing Texts Devoted to the Study of Publishing Texts Society” was simply too much, and publishing societies was one corner of scholarship that simply oughtn’t to be subject to publication by subscription.
“What ho,” objected Philip Smallsnort, “I was rather of the same opinion about your own book club, Bottomsly. And besides, the Pine Cone Association has published nothing at all in the past 18 months!”
“Pine cone scholarship wants a fresh infusion of creative intellect, that is all,” sniffed Bottomsly, whose had ridden to the club that evening in the elegant carriage paid for by Pine Cone Association subscription payments.
The Carnelian members were more or less evenly split between instinctive enthusiasm for a new book club and a sneaking suspicion that there was something slightly awry with Sir Percy’s latest endeavor.
At the Heliotrope, just down the block from the Carnelian Club (but down the block in the RIGHT DIRECTION, as the Heliotropes invariably pointed out), speculation ran more along the lines of what exactly the new society would publish, and when. “I say,” said Royker, puffing on a cigar, “as in my own Pincushion Plenary Group, there are nearly infinite questions of production to be explored. The grade of paper to be used, and the source of ink. India, don’t you know, is where the best inks can be found. I spare no expense in publishing premium pincushion papers, you see.”
“Perhaps,” said Farnsworthy, who had received the most recent Pincushion publication without noticing anything particularly impressive about it as he placed it on the shelf in his library — a location the book was destined to occupy for nearly exactly a century, until it was removed to be used for either insulation or fuel during a particularly devastating German air raid in the winter of 1940.
“I simply opine,” went on Royker, “that there is ample material worthy of close study in this field, and I suspect Sir Percy will issue his first volume within the year.
“Within the year is nonsense,” retorted Farnsworthy, “he’ll be lucky to put something out by two years hence. And the subject isn’t going to be paper and ink; it will be the astonishing scope of topics addressed by book clubs. Why, we both founded our own clubs, Royker, and there can’t be two more different subject areas than your Pincushions and my Needle Holders.”
“Quite so,” nodded Royker. “You may be correct, and a thorough compilation of fields might indeed take an extended period.”
The discussion continued for hour, including most of the Heliotrope members, nearly all of whom had founded their own publishing societies. One who hadn’t was Thomas Tompkins, a reserved member who, above all, feared that his illiteracy might be one day discovered. His failure to learn to read stemmed from a succession of private tutors hired by his parents to visit their estate and mold young Thomas into the literary titan they hoped for. Unfortunately Thomas’ generous allowance had proven quite equal to the task of bribing the tutors, who were penurious to a man. They had pretended to be teaching the absent Thomas, who had spent his time riding his horse and tramping through the woods on the enormous estate. Nevertheless, Tompkins listened to the debate and resolved, that evening, to found his own publishing club — dedicated to the existence and even the advantages of illiteracy in modern society.
At the Greige, interest centered not around the new society, but the man. “What I’m saying,” announced Bosworth Jones, who up until that moment hadn’t been saying anything, “is that we simply don’t know enough about this Percy chap. Where did he come from? Who are his family? What the dickens does the fellow look like?”
“I hear he looks quite like Dickens,” humphed Sir Wilfred. “Rather tall and dark, don’t you know.”
“And where,” asked Jones, “do you hear this? Or have you perchance met the man?”
“No, no, haven’t met him m’self,” said Sir Wilfred. “But one hears these things.” He thumped his walking stick on the floor twice to emphasize that indeed, one does hear things. He hadn’t, in this case, heard anything of the sort, but Sir Wilfred was fixated on Dickens, the most renowned modern author in the realm, and had eagerly awaited every installment and story since his imagination had been captured by “The Pickwick Papers” only a few years before. He only regretted that since Dickens was a modern author, still publishing, and had only appeared in the public sphere roughly four years back, the time was still not right to establish a Dickens Society that published, not Dickens himself, but works about him. Still, he mused, Sir Percy’s new innovation might prove a model for the radical idea of a Dickens Society that published contemporaneously with Dickens himself.
3.
Not long after the Society for Publishing Texts Devoted to the Study of Publishing Texts Society was fully subscribed, Sir Percy did it again. He announced the “Learned Society of Publishing Book Club Society Society”, and then the same week issued a flyer for the “Publishing Club For Society Books of Publishing Societies Club.”
At that juncture, the scenes at the respective Gentlemen’s Clubs devolved into near chaos. The nightly riots died down after just a month, though, and the only lasting casualy was Sir Wilfred’s walking stick, which had to be replaced after it snapped in two after a precipitous encounter in which it proved less robust than Bosworth Jones’ head. The point in contention had been a continuation of the question they had begun to explore on the evening of the 17th; whether one did or did not, in fact, hear things.
Meanwhile, Bellows and Crince were, if anything, energized by Sir Percy’s latest efforts.
“I tell you, he’s just ahead of us in this,” said Bellows.
“His system is not particular to our plan, though,” said Crince. “He’s doing the publishing society route; we’ve agreed upon the Society of Lloyd’s.”
“Quite so,” said Bellows. “If they ever finish rebuilding the Royal Exchange. Curious event, that fire two years ago.”
“T’was indeed,” agreed Crince. “And the loss of all the old records of Lloyd’s set us back a bit, what?”
“Our predictions are based on records, knowledge,” said Bellows. “I still dream about those neat ledgers with years and years of entries.” He sighed.
“We’ve found a way, though,” said Crince. “And tomorrow’s the day, sir.”
“Indeed,” said Bellows. “I do wonder, though, if anyone has ever done this before? What else would those ledgers have told us, do you suppose?”
“Until the Fibonacci Society papers, these ideas were completely unknown,” protested Crince.
“Unknown except to the author of those papers,” said Bellows.
“But the author remains anonymous.”
“Just so. Perhaps only the publisher knows who he is.”
“And the publisher is Sir Percy; we don’t know who he might be either.”
“Only because you and I are penniless scholars; the fellow must be intimately familiar to his colleagues and fellows of his proper class.”
“We are not long to remain penniless, Charlie, my friend,” said Crince. “Our formulae have won out in every test; we shall shortly share in the profits enjoyed by Lloyd’s of London since it was just a coffeehouse.”
“You don’t think we’re simply embarking on a scheme, though?” inquired Bellows. He was from time to time seized by the worry that the advantage given by their ability to make mathematically accurate predictions might be, at its heart, unfair.
“We are not merely projectors, sir! Anyone in possession of the maths and the will to put them to use could do the same.”
“But we must needs keep our methods hidden,” said Bellows. “As anyone could do what we are about to, which would render it no advantage at all, it serves us best to be known the least.”
“And why, my friend, does that trouble you so?”
“I am unsure,” said Bellows sadly. “Although I know riches lie ahead for us, I despair that my fortune-to-be will always be mysterious. Perhaps I simply wish to be able to pass this knowledge along to others and partake of a bit of admiration.”
“Perhaps someday you will find a way, Charlie,” said Crince.
Many years later Sir Charles Bellows, by that time one of the richest men in England, was idly perusing a section of his library devoted to publication societies and other obscure works. He was currently the holder of the well-worn volume from the Fibonacci Society; he and his friend Crince, the newly minted Earl of Plymouthton, met yearly to exchange the book. Bellows recalled Sir Percy, whom he had never met, even after joining the ranks of the wealthy. Remembering more about Percy, he glanced at the other society books he had collected. The “Society for Publishing Texts Devoted to the Study of Publishing Texts Society”, the “Learned Society of Publishing Book Club Society Society”, the “Publishing Club For Society Books of Publishing Societies Club”.
Sir Charles stopped and stared at the volumes on his shelf then laughed out loud. “Of course,” he muttered to himself happily. “That’s how one does it. I must tell Bart.” Sir Charles sat down to write to the Earl of Plymouthton. “My Dear Bartholomew,” his letter began, “I’ve found two answers to questions from many years ago. Before I tell you the questions, I shall tell you the answers. One is that we were not the first. The second is that I’ve finally thought of a way.”
