“George, you must do us at once, before Vicky cuts her hair,” Tasmin insisted. “In my opinion such a study will fill a niche: the harsh effects of procreation revealed for all to see.”
“Without pregnant women there would soon be no human race,” Vicky intoned—a sentiment that Father Geoff considered heavily obvious.
“No human race, exactly,” Piet agreed.
“I’m not sure that Vicky and I should disrobe entirely,” Tasmin went on, planning the sitting in her mind. “Perhaps we should just drape a shawl here and there, so as not to be absolutely stark naked.”
Kit Carson, listening in quiet astonishment, felt his ears turn red with embarrassment. It seemed that Lady Tasmin and Miss Kennet were proposing to undress and allow the painter to draw them, an intention that would surely shock Jim Snow, or any of the mountain men.
“Why couldn’t Buffum and I be naked too?” Mary asked. “We could be handmaidens of desire, could we not?”
“Personally I only desire to be my normal shape again,” Tasmin said. “If George at some point wishes to draw your scrawny body, that’s fine with me.”
George Catlin had been racking his brain to see if he could remember a picture that showed a female in the heavily pregnant state. He could not think of one. A noble subject had suddenly been presented him—a subject not only noble but also universal. All mothers, at some point, looked rather as Tasmin and Vicky looked. His own mother must have looked so, though of course he could not remember it.
“I shall just call it Motherhood,” he said, overcome for the moment by the solemnity of the undertaking.
“Oh tush, George, that’s so boring,” Tasmin said. “Can’t you think of something a little spicier?”
“Why yes, he could draw a prick and call it Fatherhood,” Father Geoffrin suggested, with a wicked smile.
Titillated, as always, by his own wit, the priest had failed to notice the stealthy approach of Mary, who had snuck into the kitchen and secured a large tureen of gravy, which she promptly dumped over Father Geoffrin’s head, leaving the drenched priest too stunned to speak.
“You vile child!” he gasped, before running off to his room to change his dripping vestments.
George Catlin scarcely noticed the incident, so absorbed was he in planning the composition; though idly suggested by Tasmin, it had now quite taken hold of his imagination. Motherhood, if delicately yet boldly executed, might be the canvas that would make his name. Perhaps it should be hung in some great building in Washington—the Capitol, perhaps. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. The allegorical dimension should not, in his view, be ignored. Were not these two Englishwomen, after all, giving birth to Americans—and, by extention, to the new America itself? Would not they represent the newer, the grander America even then being born in the West?
A grand canvas it must be, George decided—in the background there should be a winding river, the broad Missouri that they had just ascended. Forget the parrot, a bird of other lands. There should be nothing less than an eagle, hovering near, and with luck—no, rather with skill—he might even get in a buffalo.
21
… nude except for two long purplish shawls…
VENETIA Kennet, clad mainly in her own long auburn hair, lounged on a velvet coverlet in the canoe, which was firmly anchored in the Missouri’s shallows. Tasmin Berrybender—the Old World bringing its fecundity to the New, or, alternatively, the New World about to offer up its bounty—nude except for two long purplish shawls which she had looted from her mother’s wardrobe, was just stepping ashore, behind her the great dun prairies of the West. Tasmin’s problem wasn’t George Catlin’s ambitious concept, it was the shawls. A stiff prairie wind was blowing, frustrating Tasmin’s efforts to drape the shawls around herself in a becoming fashion—now and then the two shawls unwound completely, leaving her naked, an obviously pregnant woman, clutching two purple sails—a spectacle so ridiculous that neither Tasmin nor Vicky could contain their mirth. The fact that a great and grave precedent was being set—pregnancy celebrated on canvas for the first time—did not make the proceedings seem less absurd—not, at least, from the models’ point of view.
“We’re quitting for the day, George—it’s too goddamned windy,” Tasmin declared.
George had to agree. Though he felt sure the allegory would be powerful, once captured, it was rather too breezy for accurate work. Vicky’s hair was always blowing, or Tasmin’s shawls.
“Perhaps tomorrow we should try this inside the post,” he suggested. “I can always come out and get background—it’s the two of you I haven’t yet got quite right.”
“What if you never get us quite right, George?” Tasmin asked wickedly, pulling on the skins the Oto woman had made for her back downriver. Somehow the woman had correctly estimated just what her pregnant dimensions would be.
“Why shouldn’t I get you right?” George inquired. “It’s only a spatial problem—Venetia is so long-legged that she takes up most of the canoe, putting you too far to the right. It just needs adjusting. Perhaps you should be lounging and Vicky standing up.”
“No thank you, I prefer to lounge, otherwise my hair would blow,” Vicky said. “It’s even worse than Tasmin’s shawls.”
“I doubt the problem is spatial, George,” Tasmin said—she was in a mood to tease.
“Of course it’s spatial, what else could it be?” George asked.
“Oh, merely that you don’t understand women,” Tasmin said. “It’s why I was such a long time liking you. You’re only comfortable with us if you can allegorize us—have me stand for Vanity and Vicky for Lust, or vice versa. The fact that we are many things, not one thing, has confused better men than you.”
George Catlin was unruffled.
“Be that as it may, I still need to do a little more work on the two of you in this canoe,” he said.
“Do you, in your pride, suppose that you do understand women, George?” Tasmin persisted. She had no intention of letting the man wiggle off into the technicalities—she didn’t care a fig about spatiality.
“Perhaps I don’t quite understand them, but I like them,” George insisted. “I hope you might at least give me credit for that.”
“Do you think he likes us, Vicky?” Tasmin asked.
“He certainly likes to look at us,” Vicky said. She had no desire to persecute nice Mr. Catlin, whose many sketches of her seemed to catch a fair likeness. Why Tasmin was so determined to be mean to the man was a mystery—Tasmin just sometimes displayed an inclination to be mean.
“There you have it—likes to look,” Tasmin remarked. “I consider that quite a damning comment—likes to look.”
“But it isn’t at all damning, my dear,” George replied. “I’m a painter. If I didn’t like to look I’d be in a fine pickle. Painters like what their eyes like—or, to put it more strongly, they love what their eyes love. Why should that be wrong?”
“Myself, I’d want more than looking,” Tasmin assured him. “Don’t mind looking for a bit, but then I’d want a tumble. Your approach is much too pallid, George.”
George was studying his rough attempt—Tasmin’s badinage did not offend him. So far what he had was a fair study of the glorious curves of womanhood— belly, breasts, shoulders, thighs, derrieres.
“Regard,” he said, handing the sketch to Tasmin.
“Regard what?” she said. “It’s just a lot of curves.”
“Yes, but that’s the beauty of women—curves, and generous curves, in the case of you two,” he said. “If I can get the curves right, then I’ve got the woman right. When the curves make a harmony, the spirit will have been caught—insofar as the spirit of woman can ever be caught, of course.”
“Surely you can’t suppose there’s much harmony in my spirit, George,” Tasmin said. “Vicky is a fine cellist, perhaps replete with harmony, but I’m all kettledrums and cymbals myself—so is my husband. The cymbals clashed so loudly that he ran off, as you know.”
She did like the balance of the opposing curves, though—hers and Vicky’s.
“What about it, Venetia—is it better to be painted, or to be courted?” Tasmin asked her companion.
“Why, I can hardly say, Tasmin,” Vicky replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever been courted—I’ve merely been assumed. That’s the way it is, I fear, for women of my station.”
Tasmin was startled. Vicky had not spoken in sorrow, particularly, and yet, if her remark was true, sorrow there must be.
Vicky Kennet stepped out of the canoe and wrapped herself warmly in a velvet coverlet.
“Tasmin, I’ve just decided—I want to cut my hair. I want to cut it all off! All! Will you help me?”
Tasmin was shocked, not because Vicky had decided to be sensible and rid herself of such a burdensome mane, but by her tone—a tone of bitter resignation, the resignation of one who would always be not courted, just assumed.
“Of course, Vicky—I’ll help,” Tasmin said, but George Catlin, in a panic, broke in.
“Cut off your hair—but you can’t,” he protested. “I mean, you can cut it, of course, but couldn’t you just wait until I’ve finished my picture? I’m sure with one more sitting I can get it right. You’ve such splendid hair, my dear—far better than any drapery we could find. Couldn’t you just allow me one more day?”
“Perhaps, but I’m not sure, we shall have to see,” Vicky said, in sudden bitterness.
“But please—just one more sitting?” George pleaded, but Tasmin took his arm and led him away.
“Don’t pester her, George. Let be for now,” she advised. As they watched, Vicky Kennet, wrapped in the coverlet, hurried back to the post, her long hair dangling down.
22
“How grotesque pregnant women seem.”
BUFFUM, Mary, Piet, Kit, Father Geoff, and Pierre Boisdeffre had been allowed to watch the painter painting the two women in the canoe, but they had been warned not to come too close, lest their idle commentary distract the artist—in his case the models themselves were sure to supply sufficient distraction.
Near the group from the fort were several Assiniboines, who had ridden in from the north to do a little trading. Being in no hurry, they stopped to watch the strange proceedings on the Missouri River’s shore.
“How grotesque pregnant women seem,” Mary declaimed. “I shall remain a virgin all my life in order to avoid that awkward state.”
“I doubt your resolve will hold if you keep encouraging Piet,” Buffum warned. “Males not infrequently misinterpret our good intentions.”
“No, no … not the little one—she merely eases my anxieties,” Piet protested, though not with much force.
“I don’t yield the point, Mary,” Buffum said. “There’s Tasmin, there’s Vicky, proof positive. No doubt a great number of anxieties were eased while they were getting themselves in that state.”
Kit Carson felt that his ears might burst into flame, so hot were they with embarrassment. Tasmin was some distance away, but, unable to handle the shawls, she now and then stood quite naked, and so, more or less, was Miss Kennet. If Jim Snow were to return at such a moment, murder would no doubt occur—perhaps more than one murder. He himself, entrusted with Tasmin’s care, might come under attack, and he felt that he deserved to be attacked, for allowing Lady Tasmin to display herself so shamelessly— but how to stop her? None of the people watching seemed to be disapproving, a thing that puzzled Kit. Apparently if a painter like Mr. Catlin wanted to make a picture of women with their clothes off, then women simply took their clothes off and let him, with no embarrassment even.
More and more often Kit was troubled by the suspicion that the English were not really sane. Mountain men were thought to be wild, and they did get drunk and spit and fight, but no mountain man would simply take his clothes off and allow a painter to draw him in his nakedness. Kit had seen a good many of George’s Indian paintings, and in those the opposite approach prevailed: the Indians piled on all the finery they could get their hands on, bear claw necklaces, eagle feather headdresses, fine buckskin robes, and lots of paint. He would have suspected the English ladies to do more or less the same thing, don their best gowns and finest gems, not scamper around naked on the muddy banks of the Missouri River. The whole business was quite disturbing. Every few minutes Kit scanned the plains to the south, half expecting to see Jim Snow arriving, murder in his eyes.
The Assiniboines, for their part, were divided in their opinions about the strange activities in and about the canoe. A young warrior named Skunk claimed to have once used that very canoe, which he said was an ill-balanced bark of the utmost impracticality.
“That canoe will capsize if they’re not careful,” Skunk declared.
Bad Head, who had had more experience with whites than the boy Skunk, doubted that the pregnant women meant to go anywhere in the canoe.
“They’re not trying to go anywhere,” he pointed out. “I think they’re just playing some game.”
Red Crow, the leader of the little group, had recently had his portrait painted by the likeness maker. It was obvious to him that the painter had persuaded the women to take their clothes off so he could look at their big bellies, a desire that was beyond Red Crow’s comprehension. He had never liked to look at his wives when their bellies were big.
“Maybe they want to have their babies in the canoe,” Bad Head suggested—it was not reasonable, but then nothing the whites did struck him as particularly reasonable.
“It could be religious,” Red Crow said. “They could be offering themselves to the river spirits, to make their babies come easier.”
“I don’t think so,” Bad Head countered. “The river spirits like virgins—at least that’s what I was taught.”
In his view the river spirits, which were quite powerful, had a right to unsullied females. The two white women were English—perhaps the English didn’t understand that the spirits were finicky in such matters.
As they watched, the painter and the women and the other white people began to walk toward the post. The two large women who had been naked had finally covered themselves, a relief to Red Crow, who didn’t like seeing large white bellies.
Then the painter said something to Kit Carson and old Boisdeffre and the two of them picked up the canoe and began to carry it toward the trading post, an action that made no sense at all. A canoe belonged in the water.
“Maybe it has a hole in it,” Skunk said. “They probably want to patch the hole.”
Bad Head rode over to the river, hoping he might hear the river spirits the whites had been attempting to entice, but all he heard was the low murmur of the Missouri River, flowing over some rocks.
23
… light and graceful Moliére …
“I only supposed it to be a deer of some kind,” Bobbety explained, looking at the dead horse. “I didn’t want to come on this hunt, or shoot at beasts. I far prefer to collect fossils, or even rocks. You’re the one who insisted I shoot, Papa. I merely shot to please you.”
Lord Berrybender was shocked almost beyond speech. His horse, the great Thoroughbred Royal Andrew, descended in a direct line from the Byerly Turk, a horse that had been carrying him swiftly among the buffalo all day—he had knocked over at least forty of the great beasts—now lay dead, shot by his own son.
Lord B. had come in, as was proper, and given Royal Andrew to Tim, who rubbed him down. Then they allowed the horse just a bit of a scamper—it was while he was scampering, not far from camp, that they heard the report of a gun.
“My Lord … the savages … where are they?” Lord B. cried. He felt certain that they must be under attack, but Señor Yanez shook his head. He knew exactly which of His Lordship’s rifles had just been fired.
“It’s Master Bobbety,” the Spaniard said. “He’s only got the one eye now.”
Bobbety had spent much of the day hiding in a small hummock of grass, near the camp. He remembered that the vast American plain had swallowed up Gladwyn, Fraul
ein, Tintamarre, a boatman, and at least two Indian chiefs. His one ambition was to avoid being swallowed up. From his hummock of grass he could clearly see the wagon and the buggy—at least he could see them when his one eye didn’t water. Of course, various animals ambled by his post during the day—buffalo, elk, and antelope, plus several scurrying creatures. It was only as the day wore on toward evening that Bobbety decided to shoot a large beast— then he would have been “blooded,” as his father put it, and, once blooded, perhaps he would be allowed to return to the trading post, whose comforts he sorely missed.
So, when a large brownish beast rather like an elk scampered within easy range, Bobbety, myopic from birth, shot it—only to realize, from a whinny the dying beast gave, that it hadn’t, after all, been an elk or a deer, but only a horse. Not until confronted with his father’s shocked face did Bobbety realize that he had killed Royal Andrew, the finest horse in his father’s famous stud. There before them the great horse lay, dead as any of the forty buffalo that had fallen that day.
Lord Berrybender turned ash white—he attempted speech.
“My horse—my best horse,” he said—of all the losses suffered by the Berrybenders since their arrival on the Missouri River, none struck home like this one.
Lord Berrybender stared at Bobbety, but had not the strength even to curse. He wavered, he wobbled, then he dropped the glass of brandy in his hand and slowly sank down across the still-warm rump of Royal Andrew, in a dead faint.
“Smelling salts, smelling salts,” Signor Claricia demanded, snapping his fingers at Tim—the stable boy, fervently hoping that Lord B. was as dead as his horse, sauntered over toward the campfire, where Milly, the laundress, was attempting to cook a kind of hash which Lord Berrybender favored and which Cook had taught her to make, only Cook had not had to make it over an open fire with a strong wind blowing.
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