Artist Elizabeth Gould spent her life capturing the sublime beauty of birds the world had never seen before. But her legacy was eclipsed by the fame of her husband, John Gould. The Birdman’s Wife at last gives voice to a passionate and adventurous spirit who was so much more than the woman behind the man.
Elizabeth was a woman ahead of her time, juggling the demands of her artistic life with her roles as wife, lover, helpmate, and mother to an ever-growing brood of children. In a golden age of discovery, her artistry breathed wondrous life into hundreds of exotic new species, including Charles Darwin’s famous Galapagos finches.
In The Birdman’s Wife, the naïve young girl who falls in love with a demanding and ambitious genius comes into her own as a woman, an artist and a bold adventurer who defies convention by embarking on a trailblazing expedition to collect and illustrate Australia’s ‘curious’ birdlife.
In this indelible portrait, an extraordinary woman overshadowed by history steps back into the light where she belongs.
PRAISE FOR THE BIRDMAN’S WIFE
‘The Birdman’s Wife is an exquisite reimagining of the untold story of Elizabeth Gould which restores her and her bird illustrations to centre stage during a period when the passion for natural history and discovery of new species was sweeping the world.’
Inga Simpson, author of Where the Trees Were, Nest and Mr Wigg
‘At the opening of The Birdman’s Wife, Elizabeth Gould alights from a carriage into an exotic place of unknown creatures and a meeting that would change her life. We witness the growth of this inquisitive and intelligent woman as a wife, mother and artist, the avian specimens she illustrates mirroring her own remarkable flight. Melissa Ashley’s lush work is a beautiful testimony to this overlooked — but brave and talented — female artist.’
Jessica White, author of A Curious Intimacy and Entitlement
‘I completely fell in love with this book. ’
Susan Duncan, author of Salvation Creek, The House at Salvation Creek and The Briny Café
Published by Affirm Press in 2016
28 Thistlethwaite Street, South Melbourne, VIC 3205.
www.affirmpress.com.au
Text and copyright © Melissa Ashley, 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced without prior permission of the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry available for this title at www.nla.gov.au
The Birdman’s Wife / Melissa Ashley, author.
ISBN: 9781925344998 (hardback)
Cover and internal design by Christa Moffitt, Christabella Designs
Front cover and case cover images: Detail on cover and full image on case cover of Superb Fairy Wren (Blue Warbler) Malurus cyaneus. Hand-coloured lithograph by Elizabeth Gould from John Gould,The Birds of Australia (1840-1848). Image courtesy of Special Collections, Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas Libraries.
Internal black and white images: Lyrebird on p.ii, by Elizabeth Gould, from John Gould, The Birds of Australia (1840-1848) Volume 7, frontispiece; photograph of image supplied by Melissa Ashley; Part 1: Unidentified egg. Pencil and watercolor drawing by Elizabeth Gould, Gould drawing 2309; Part 2: Swift Chaetura macroptera. Uncoloured lithographic print by Elizabeth Gould, Gould Drawing 274b. Published with added hand colouring in John Gould, The Birds of Australia, and the Adjacent Islands, Part 2, Plate 1; Part 3: Budgerigar Nanodes undulates. Lithographic print by Elizabeth Gould, Gould Drawing 597b. Published with added hand colouring in John Gould, The Birds of Australia, and the Adjacent Islands, Part 1, Plate 5. All courtesy of Special Collections, Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas Libraries.
Typeset in Goudy Old Style 11.5/18
The paper this book is printed on is certified against the Forest Stewardship Council® Standards. Griffin Press holds FSC chain of custody certification SGS-COC-005088. FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the world’s forests.
For Brett, Sylvie and Theo
CONTENTS
PART 1
inquieta (l. restless)
Chapter 1
COMMON CHAFFINCH Fringilla coelebs
Chapter 2
ROOK Corvus frugilegus
Chapter 3
DUSKY TAPACULO Scytalopus fuscus
Chapter 4
LEAR’S MACAW Anodorhynchus leari
Chapter 5
MRS GOULD’S SUNBIRD Aethopyga
gouldiae
Chapter 6
RED-FOOTED FALCON Falco
vespertinus
Chapter 7
RESPLENDENT QUETZAL Trogon
resplendens
Chapter 8
LARGE GROUND FINCH Geospiza
magnirostris
Chapter 9
BLACK HONEYEATER Sugomel niger
PART 2
alario (l. on the wing)
Chapter 10
SPECTACLED PETREL Procellaria
conspicillata
Chapter 11
WELCOME SWALLOW Hirundo
neoxena
Chapter 12
SUPERB FAIRY WREN Malurus
cyaneus
Chapter 13
GREY FANTAIL Rhipidura albiscapa
Chapter 14
SOUTHERN GIANT PETREL Macronectes giganteus
Chapter 15
GREEN ROSELLA Platycercus
caledonicus
Chapter 16
TAWNY FROGMOUTH Podargus
strigoides
Chapter 17
SATIN BOWERBIRD Ptilonorhynchus
violaceus
Chapter 18
CHESTNUT-BACKED QUAIL THRUSH
Cinclosoma castanotum
Chapter 19
BRUSH TURKEY Alectura lathami
PART 3
destinato (I. homecoming)
Chapter 20
BUDGERIGAR Melopsittacus undulatus
Chapter 21
SUPERB LYREBIRD Menura
novaehollandiae
Chapter 22
WHITE-FRONTED FALCON Falco
frontatus
Chapter 23
PLAINS WANDERER Pedionomus
torquatus
Chapter 24
MISTLETOEBIRD Dicaeum
hirundinaceum
Chapter 25
NORFOLK ISLAND KAKA Nestor
productus
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
A Guide to Endpaper Images
Part one
inquieta
(l. restless)
Chapter 1
Common Chaffinch
Fringilla coelebs
Bruton Street, London 1828
Stepping down from the carriage into the mad bustle of Bruton Street, it was as if I had entered another world. Towers of wooden crates stamped with exotic destinations piled up around the entrance to the Zoological Society’s headquarters as delivery men jostled to unload more treasure from the back of a horse-drawn van. I jumped back just in time to avoid colliding with two scruffy youths as they wrestled an oversized crate to the ground in front of me.
A finger and thumb protruded through a broken slat in the crate. Unable to resist, I stooped down to inspect it more closely. The hand they belonged to seemed almost human, I thought, except longer, the skin much thicker. I looked over to where the two men had hurried off to unload more crates and wondered if I should tell them to take more care. But as I peered into the darkened crate I was too stunned by the quiet creature’s shape. I could not judge whether the beast had expired during its voyage or was a taxidermist’s precious specimen in need of repair and restuffing. It was rare for an animal from for
eign climes to survive the seaward journey to London’s docks. Even if, by grace, the creature was alive at the voyage’s conclusion, after clearing port it was unlikely to thrive. Some thought it was the climate that disagreed with the animals, the little known about their feeding habits, the effects of the loss of a mate and family. I feared it was these conditions and more; they were pining, alone and imprisoned, parted from all they knew and loved.
At that moment I was feeling displaced myself.
It was difficult not to feel a little apprehensive as I waited beside my brother to enter his place of employment. Charles had been hired as a stuffer by Mr John Gould, who rented rooms from the Zoological Society to conduct his business. Behind the shopfront window, a striking scene had been posed: a bear cub, a red stag with impressive antlers, and several English garden birds wired to a stump of tree limb. The mounted specimens were dusty and matted, their hides and plumage faded to a greyish-brown. I wondered aloud why Mr Gould advertised his trade as London’s leading animal stuffer using such common varieties. Charles explained that sunlight caused the hides and feathers to fade and while a rare or exotic animal might well be more likely to catch the attention of passers-by, the damage would devalue the mount’s worth.
How ironic, I thought, that the best way to care for such treasures was to keep them out of sight in cabinets, under cloth and key.
‘What’s the strangest creature you’ve encountered at Mr Gould’s?’
‘An ostrich, if I recall,’ said Charles.
I pictured the specimen laid out on a worktable, its muscular legs and cloven toes and ridiculous plumage spilling over the edges, its long neck lolling. ‘Did he need many men to sew up the skin?’
‘Yes, several.’ Charles laughed. ‘And a few strong clamps. He once repaired a lioness in the viewing room of the British Museum, after a removalist tore its thigh on a cabinet edge.’ My brother’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, and then there was the Thames whale. Several summers ago a whale calf beached itself in an estuary. Mr Gould shocked all the taxidermists of London by dissecting the rotting carcass right where it lay, in front of a crowd. His assistant claimed he took a coach back to his rooms with rings from the whale’s aorta slung around his neck like horse-yokes.’
Charles had entertained me with many such wild tales of the exploits of his employer during our coach ride from my lodgings on James Street. I still found it hard to believe that on the strength of my brother’s mention of my passion for sketching and painting, Mr Gould had insisted we meet, inviting me to his rooms to make him a drawing. Charles told me that Mr Gould required sketches of some of the more unusual animals that he was called to work on to ensure their forms and proportions correctly represented their appearance in life. However, as his business had expanded and demands from his clients grew, he had become frustrated at his lack of suitability to such a task. So here I was, summoned to Bruton Street for a trial.
Charles touched my shoulder. ‘Shall we proceed?’
I sighed and nodded, smiling at my nerves.
A straggly-haired boy motioned to Charles. We entered the building and walked along a dim corridor, passing a room stacked from floor to ceiling with crates. Charles steered me to the staircase that led to Mr Gould’s basement laboratory, the stench of ammonia and preserving salts strengthening with each step. I hastily lifted my handkerchief to my nose. I knew from Charles’s stories that the wide oak door we were approaching concealed the workshop where the stuffing was carried out. It was kept exceedingly warm, lit by a blazing coal fire, and I felt a little uneasy, anticipating the horrors he had warned me lay ahead.
Charles held open the heavy door and I stepped inside, thrilled to be permitted into this strange environment. A long bench dominated the room, arranged into individual workplaces like settings for supper, each supplied with curiously shaped cutting tools, measuring tape, rags and tubs of stuffing flax and tow, and lit by a small gas lamp. Charles tied on a leather apron while I hung up my cloak and removed my gloves and bonnet, taking care to keep out of the way of the youths bustling in and out with tins and boxes containing the animals Mr Gould wanted skinned. I drifted towards the back of the workshop, my attention caught by a menagerie of shorebirds – a godwit, several sandpipers, curlews, dotterels, herons and varieties of plover. For a heart-stopping moment the display tricked my eyes. It seemed the birds had flown into the room via a secret passage and, like children, settled before the warmth of the flames in the hope of being treated to a story. But as I drew closer I could see that the birds were perched on wooden boards, each miming its own dramatic scene. The sandpiper probed for molluscs. One of the plovers preened his shoulder. The heron reared to strike. The curlew held a shell in the barber’s tongs of its beak. The darter had drawn his long neck into a loop.
‘Why are they so close to the flames?’ I whispered.
Charles explained that immediately after being wired into position by Mr Gould’s stuffers, the specimens were set before a fire to dry and harden. The process required several days and was like firing ceramic. At the conclusion of the airing, a transformation had taken place; the mount, as the specimen was called, permanently kept its shape. If I had looked more closely, I would have seen the pins and clips, the bandages and nails that supported the specimens in their drying, as if they had just been carried out of surgery.
‘Where shall I set up?’ I asked, noticing how little space the room offered, what with the crates taking up most of the floor and the cutting tools, lamps, bins and stuffing materials spread across the long workbench.
Charles indicated a stool beside his own. ‘You could try your hand at one of the specimens I’m to look over.’
I set out my paper and sketching pencils. The stack of tins near Charles’s work mat reminded me of Father’s tobacco containers. Curious about the dead birds my brother worked with, I picked up the nearest tin – its size would suit a drawing-room pipe – and pried off the lid. A hand over my mouth, I summoned my courage and stole a look at the distinctive black face and wing markings, the red belly feathers and undertail of a spotted woodpecker. It lay in a bed of cotton, chalk powder sprinkled on its plumage to absorb the bleeding. In many parts there were dried lumps. Even I could tell it was practically ruined by shot.
‘How do you fix the torn skin?’ I asked, both curious and fascinated.
‘They mostly turn up looking like that,’ said Charles. ‘The amateurs use the wrong shot size and then expect us to perform miracles. Aren’t you fast with a needle and thread? I should set you to work sewing up the tears.’
‘I’m positive you know what you’re doing. And you must remember how I detest needlework.’
Natural history and the associated art of taxidermy were becoming a craze. According to Charles, new adherents joined the ranks at the rate of fungi sprinkling grass after rain. It was inexpensive, after all. In penny shops you could purchase a pamphlet with precise instructions on how to stuff a bird or vole or ferret, to preserve a sea sponge or cut and polish a beach-combed fossil. The would-be practitioner was advised to fashion tools and instruments from objects found about the house: reeds, quills, kitchen scissors, a hammer and small blade. There were recipes for cooking a batch of arsenical soap over the fire and for pot-stirring a mound of gum Arabic and candy sugar into fixing glue. Windowsills and hearths were suggested as niches for drying.
I replaced the lid and opened the next box. Compelled by the corpses’ fragility, I examined all of them – a coal tit, chaffinch, redwing, nuthatch and, in a sort of metal milliner’s case, a whimbrel with a downward curving beak – trying to decide which I should draw.
The door handle turned and I glanced up. One of Mr Gould’s delivery men, sandy hair curling to his shoulders, strode into the room. But he was not carrying a crate. Then I noted that he wore a blood-smeared apron, like Charles. Another stuffer. He moved with a sense of purpose – I do not think he noticed us at the table – inspecting the specimens drying around the fire. He tilted them this way and that
, squeezing their necks and pulling at their tail feathers, testing for dampness. I observed the breadth of his shoulders, the obvious strength of his arms beneath his shirt: his work must have involved more lifting than my brother’s. Would the fellow drop in and out like this, I wondered? And then I chided myself, sensing my cheeks grow warm. How was it that I was admiring the build of a working boy?
The young man straightened. He tucked his hair behind his ears and met my gaze. He had been aware, all along, of my appraisal.
‘The pamphlets make our art seem simple, don’t they?’ he said to Charles, strolling over to our end of the bench.
‘She can’t possibly understand,’ said Charles, winking at the youth.
I playfully narrowed my eyes and turned to our visitor, seeking an ally against my brother.
The man seemed amused. He moved towards me, holding his hand out to take mine. ‘I’m Mr John Gould,’ he said, ‘and I’m pleased to finally meet you, Miss Coxen.’
‘Mr Gould?’ I stared blankly at my brother’s employer, unable to help noticing the striking cobalt blue of his eyes. ‘I expected somebody more senior,’ I said. ‘You are senior of course. What I mean is that I imagined someone older.’ I withdrew my hand and sat awkwardly on my stool.
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