Dr. McT.’s owls were most remarkable, especially his vocalizations of the screech owl (Megascops asio), as he uses no aids in reproducing the sounds for this bird. I held my breath while he performed this one, for he told me that it is really quite a difficult call to master. For the male trill, he must tilt his head back and hold just the smallest amount of saliva behind his front teeth and on his upper palate to produce a slightly gurgling sound, and yet whistle through his pursed lips at the same time.
Undoubtedly, though, the audience was the most enthralled with his ivory-billed woodpecker (Campephilus principalis), which Dr. McT. says he always saves for the end. He had the audience come upon it after trekking through a swampy woods, our boots wet and muddy, our spirits flagging just a little and yet determined to see it, though the gnats and mosquitoes buzzed about us voraciously. (I am almost sure I saw Effie swat at one near her hair, so convincing was his description!) And then, at last we saw it, high upon a branch, stripping the bark and searching greedily—and many of us no doubt thought gruesomely—for larvae. Dr. McT. rapped the wood loudly with his “bill,” and then he turned his head toward the audience, the bird suddenly catching a roomful of people looking at him. No one dared move, and then, after what seemed like eons, he gave its peculiar kent call. Everyone gasped after he had finished it, and Allan cried “encore”—and then as Dr. McT. performed it again (it is the most unusual and bizarre series of sounds!), the room erupted into laughter.
There was a great burst of applause, and we all broke up after that. Dr. McTavish was instantly swarmed by enthusiastic ladies who showered him with profuse admiration. I found myself with Allan and Dr. Reid: Allan was almost giddy with excitement, and Dr. Reid sent Allan on a mission to secure us “something edible” from among the throng at the tables. My grandpere came to us, and he seemed very pleased; he spoke little, but he eyed the rooms and the congestion of people in them approvingly, and I wondered if he perhaps was recalling pleasures of his own past. Aunt Louise was among the crowd around Dr. McT., quite unable to reach him and speaking French rapidly to her immediate neighbors, who, I rather suspect, knew not a word of what she was saying, but they humored her most graciously. Dr. McT. caught my eye and how his own sparkled—I had a sudden image of Claude turning over on his back and offering up his belly for a good rub!
At one point, Grandpere turned to Dr. Reid and, speaking to him in French, asked him if he had enjoyed the performance, and much to my surprise, for he has never done so before, at least in my presence, Dr. Reid responded in the same tongue. He spoke it most beautifully, and I think I must have shown both my amazement and my admiration, for he looked at me with an impish grin—not unlike the one I had seen on his visage the first time I had met him at the Fates. He seemed pleased with me this evening; his eyes glowed appreciation so openly that I, like the royal bird I was for the evening, found myself preening just a little under his gaze.
The house was very crowded, but still across the room, I could see George with Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, as well as Caroline and her father—and Allan, perhaps forgetting us, was being divested of the two plates he was carrying. But I was determined not to care. I cannot explain it, but somehow I felt that my grandpere stood square to Mr. Ferguson, bishop to bishop…and I wondered that I, a lightkeeper’s daughter, could feel herself a queen.
And Caroline—is she a queen as well?
Tad once told me that there is only one true queen on a chessboard. I remember asking him which one it was, and he asked me what I thought in return. I hazarded that she was always the one that won the game, and he shook his head slowly.
“No, child,” he said. “A queen may lose the game at hand, but ever is she a queen.”
Now, what has put that memory into my mind tonight?
March 21
Cold and gray—and so dreary! Five days of this unending bleak cold—and everyone wishes to stay indoors. I went for a long walk by myself, and even the forests behind the house seem dispirited and rather low that a stubborn cold snap has come upon them so late in the season. We are all waiting for signs of change—of earth thawing and snows melting. I find myself wishing so fervently to be home.
I try so hard not to think of it! Indeed, I have even forbidden myself to write of it, but I do not know what has become of George—or the Fergusons. There is a great silence on this subject, and somehow I dare not ask Dr. McT. about it.
March 23
Mr. Thompson arrived today and he is quite—inexplicably changed! Not in his appearance so much, though he is quite tanned as a result of his exposure to the sun, but he is certainly changed in his demeanor. I am not at all sure that Dr. McTavish is pleased with it.
I recall him being so reticent and quiet in his manner; though we did get a glimpse of his theatrical talents one evening when he gave us the most extraordinary recitation. Perhaps it is these gifts that have been loosened in him, for he has acquired a deportment that is most definitely thespian. For one thing, he has adopted Italian expressions and sprinkles them quite liberally throughout his speech, and he also kisses his fingers most expressively. Moreover, he seems to have lost all his timidity around Dr. McTavish, and—how shall I describe it?—he has become most colorful in his dress. This evening before dinner, Dr. McT. asked him where he had acquired such an “execrable” suit of clothes, and this set in motion a long and seemingly inexhaustible address on “the fashion.” Grandpere positively disdains to be in the same room with Mr. Thompson, but Aunt Louise is fascinated and encourages discussion particularly on this subject. I am not at all sure what results this may produce.
March 25
Mr. Thompson has refused to accompany us to the lodge, and Dr. McT. is furious with him. For my part, I suppose I am rather relieved that the storm has broken and now we may at least return to some semblance of normalcy.
Oh—but Aunt Louise is inadvertently to blame! She has invited Mr. Thompson to visit Montreal, and I am sure that Grandpere is not pleased, though he is too well bred to counter his daughter’s invitation. But it afforded Mr. Thompson an opportunity to decline what he termed Dr. McTavish’s “invitation to accompany him in the pursuit of ornithographic trivia.” Such a statement hardly sat well with the doctor, but I must say that he took it in stride and largely ignored him. Oh—but then Mr. Thompson proposed that we build an aviary at the top of the house and instead have the birds delivered to save the Doctor and his poor assistants the bother of trudging off to “the edges of civilization,” as he called it. I heard Dr. McTavish mutter, “Risum teneatis, amici,” but in the most unfriendly way, and so I tried to introduce another topic. Mr. Thompson, however, would not cease and began to ridicule the “northern climate” and its beastly insects and explained to Aunt Louise that men in such locales were required to grow their hair as thick and as uncomely as a bear’s.
I think Aunt Louise and I both heard Dr. McT.’s warning growl, for we joined forces and both rushed Mr. Thompson from the room on some pretense. Good heavens—does a voyage to Europe always produce such spirited effects in hitherto retiring and diffident young men?
March 26
We are to go home April 15—not long after George’s show. Dr. McT. has told me, and I immediately wrote Tad to tell him of our intended return. The journey will probably take at least two days, and we must be very careful not to overtax Mother’s energies, but she seemed so pleased when we told her.
Dr. Reid thinks that she will continue to improve as long as we do not “mollycoddle” her, and I am to be especially vigilant in explaining all this to Auntie Alis. I do not think that Dr. Reid entirely approves of our departure, for he was quite gloomy during our consultation and has insisted that I receive extra instruction from the nurses who have attended her—almost as if he doubts my abilities.
I am a little ashamed that I feel such excitement at the prospect of going home. I must be very careful not to inadvertently injure the warm hearts that have taken
such good care of us. Dr. McT. said that Mother may come back next winter if she wishes, but I secretly hope that she will not want to return, or that her health will be such that she does not require further convalescence.
March 28
I fear that I have not done justice to Dr. Reid, for I have not fully appreciated either his character or the depth of feelings that he seems to conceal so carefully behind his doctor’s face. And now I must examine my own self and the nature of my feelings toward him. Have I evaded such investigations? For some inexplicable reason, I wish to avoid this introspection; it is true that I am both very happy at the prospect of going home, and yet unhappy at the prospect of leaving him, for I now see him almost every day and can hardly imagine what it would be like not to have Dr. Reid with us.
But now he has, to some degree, forced the issue. As we walked back from the hospital this afternoon, he asked me—oh, for once I cannot recall the words exactly! I am sure it was something to the effect of “did I think I could ever feel toward him more than the regard with which I now honor him?” Truly I did not know what to say! For once I wished that I might have a veil to hide my face, but even so, I think my heart thrilled a little. We continued to walk, I striving to make my steps calm, and I did not remove my hand from his arm even as he tightened his grip upon me.
“Miss Brice—Marged, you are not angry with me?” he said, and I, of course, shook my head. I said that there was no reason to feel anything but gratitude to him, given all he had done for Mother—but he interrupted me. He said that I was speaking to him as to a doctor, but that his question to me had come from himself as a man.
I looked at him directly at that—and again I caught the restless movement of something in his face. I do so like his face; I have grown to watch its expressions and to depend upon its gentle candor, so that to me he is a very handsome man, though I do not doubt many women might find him a little austere and even grim at times.
He asked me if I would think upon it, and I assented, and then he said, speaking in uneven tones, that it grieved him to think that a time might come when my presence—when I—would no longer form a part of his day. I listened, and somehow I also felt a bit of the same. I realized that in the joy of going home, I had not thought of what I might leave behind.
He—I have often heard Dr. McT. call him Andrew—did not directly declare his feelings for me, in words at least, but I can hardly doubt the purport of his expression. But in this I believe he intended that I might silence him immediately if I wished and not be agitated by attentions repugnant to me.
Yet I did not find his question in the least repugnant, and as much as told him so. In this I was at least honest—but still, I do not know what I might feel for him! Could I love him? I think it safe to say that I have a deep regard for him, and an affection certainly, and though I am extremely sad at the thought of not seeing him each day, still, this does not quell my desire to go home.
March 29
[Moisture damage for three paragraphs.]
…and Caroline seemed almost feverish and even a little exultant as we greeted her. Mr. Ferguson was more subdued, and he remained quite aloof, watching the crowd with a critical appraisal, or so it seemed to me—as if George’s paintings were now upon the scale, and some unseen hand were moving the weights to secure and then record their value.
I looked at all of George’s paintings—but I was drawn most to the rear room, where he had hung his landscapes, and so I returned there to take more time with them. I had noted at the outset that Mr. Sparke was among the thick throng of visitors and had resolved to avoid him at all costs. I was therefore not a little startled to find him at my side as I perused the landscapes—he bowing once again and mumbling some pleasantry about the evening and how pleasurable it was to find himself among “beautiful things.” I was tongue-tied—of course remembering the violence of my previous encounter with him—and I hardly knew what to say, though I think I uttered some response. He then took my arm in a most cordial fashion and said that I must see the “only really good piece” in the whole exhibit.
I could hardly refuse, for he seemed quite friendly (and I assumed forgiving), and so we went toward a corner where he drew my attention to a painting set within in an ornate gold frame and executed in dark tones against a vivid and changing background of blue and gray. At my first reconnoiter with the picture, I had recognized the Basin’s west shore, just after the sun had set and with the light hovering on the water as the horizon disappeared. At Mr. Sparke’s prompting, I moved closer to inspect it—for of course I recognized the scene—and then discerned that there was a darker form, barely perceptible, blended into the shoreline. It was undeniably a female figure; her features were all in shadow except that a careful observer could make out the faint crest on her forehead. All of a sudden I felt self-conscious—for here was the suggestion of my own form—and I wondered if George had drawn me thus, turning away from the Bay to head back home. It was as if he had caught me—in the movement of light and shadow he had caught my form!
Mr. Sparke was studying me closely, and then he said, “Is this not your portrait, Miss Brice? This one is titled Eidos.”
I shook my head, pretending not to understand.
“This is at once a landscape and a portrait—the figure of the woman blending and moving with the natural elements behind, as if she, too, were in constant motion. I like it far better than the other portraits,” he added, “though Stewart did render Miss Ferguson’s formidable but rather static beauty well, wouldn’t you agree?”
Still I was silent, for Caroline’s portrait had in truth depressed my spirits, though undoubtedly it was well painted and certainly she was quite beautiful in it.
I must have remained silent for some moments, and I looked up to find Mr. Sparke staring at me curiously.
“Tell me,” he continued, undiscouraged by my taciturnity. “You are from these parts, are you not? What do you make of these landscapes?” He indicated with a sweep of his hand the rest of the room. “Do they capture something of this place?”
I think it must have been his choice of words, for when he uttered “capture,” I felt my back stiffen. I frowned and looked away from him. I do not know why, but I felt irritated by his question.
“Tell me what you think, Miss Brice,” he urged. “Do not spare me in your choice of words.”
I shook my head again, frustrated because I did not know how to express myself—and he whispered, “Please.”
Then I paused, choosing my words carefully as my thoughts formed.
“These paintings do not ‘capture,’” I said.
“Like those others,” he interjected, pointing toward the front room, and I nodded in spite of myself.
“Then why do you like these paintings?” he asked me. “Do they not remind you of these places and scenes?”
“Oh, yes,” I said quickly. “That is precisely it. I know that George has been to these places and that”—how I struggled to express myself!—“and that he did not paint them to take them away somewhere else, but to paint them as and where they are.”
I shook my head, feeling that I had expressed myself poorly.
“Isn’t that capturing the spirit of the place, then?”
I shuddered as he said it—and stepped back as if offended at the thought.
“No,” I exclaimed. “George’s paintings never do that—as if to cage a wild creature. They are not just ‘beautiful things’ that give a passing pleasure. You do not like these pictures because they are not tame!”
“You are mistaken,” he answered. “I like these ones very much!”
I was silent, surprised at this confession, and Mr. Sparke stared moodily at Eidos for a few moments. Then he turned to look at me, and I grew a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
After some further moments, he said, “Do you not think it is a portrait—even of the Bay?”
I shook my head and smiled, for I suddenly understood my own thought, and I responded, “The Bay is never still enough to be a portrait. On the calmest of days, there is too much movement even in its repose. I think George understands this somehow. I see it in his paintings.”
“In all his paintings?” he persisted.
“No,” I whispered, for I wished to be truthful, but I felt a little sad in saying so.
I don’t quite know why, but I felt more kindly disposed toward Mr. Sparke, and even understood a little of why he railed against George, and thought that he perhaps even wished to help him.
Then, as if discerning my thoughts, he said, “Ah, Miss Brice, now you see that I am not the enemy that you have supposed.”
Before I could reply, George appeared in the doorway and, seeing us, came up to us, his face composed, though I felt rather than saw an undercurrent of tension in him as he approached Mr. Sparke.
Mr. Sparke’s visage assumed a slightly caustic expression, and he quipped, “I have just been discussing your paintings with someone who seems to know far more about them than even you do, Stewart. Miss Brice and I seem to agree that these landscapes represent your best work—”
“George,” I said interrupting him, and perhaps too precipitously. “That is hardly the case…” But he stopped me and seemed even pleased at Mr. Sparke’s inference.
“Now, about this portrait—” began Mr. Sparke, but I could not bear to remain to hear them discuss the painting, and so I moved quickly away, no doubt appearing rude, but truly I could not help it.
George followed me, but the room had become so congested that I was forced to pause and wait until a path to the front room cleared. He stopped behind me and, bending quite close, whispered into my ear, “Well, and did you like your portrait, Marged?”
Perdita Page 22