Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  I became near possessed by the exactness of the task of colouring the quetzal. One morning, before the sun had risen, I arose and quickly dressed, anxious to finish my work on the quetzal. I took the stairs two at a time, eager to reach the studio. In my robe and socks, I knelt before the hearth grate with a brush and shovel, tidying the ashes from the previous day’s fire. I felt with my bare hands for coals that might be reusable. I added tinder, gradually building a tower of twigs. On my haunches, my hair unpinned, I must have resembled a chimney sweep with ash on my nose and my hands splintered from arranging fragments of wood. Satisfied by the pile of sticks, I struck a match and began the earnest work of coaxing the flame. I blew the softest of breaths onto the fragile orange and blue flickers. I lingered to warm my fingers. Soon the room would be warm, ready for me to paint.

  I had to experiment further to find the right finishing technique. Powdered minerals had been used to delineate the scales of fish, the glassy carapaces of beetles and of course birds’ feathers. Eggwhite was a traditional source of gloss. I whipped it with a fork and combined it with gum Arabic, to which I added gold, silver or bronze powder. I experimented with leaf and foil, picturing John blowing steam out of his ears at the expense. I had explained to him that such exquisite renderings would stir the hearts of our subscribers and that the illustration would not be complete without using such costly ingredients. I thickened copper green in the fire, painted it on and then added the finest sprinkling of gold dust. Over the top, I dabbed the softest, sheerest layer of eggwhite, so that when held under light, a kaleidoscope of colours formed and changed.

  When my hand needed resting, I leafed through my gift of Gesner’s Almanac, absorbing the fantastic speculations of Renaissance scholars about the hibernating swallow, the goose barnacle that grew on trees, the holy swan whose meat it was a sin to eat. Revived and inspired, I would shut the book and return to my task. The fine drawing was almost completed and I took a long, last look at the resplendent quetzal on my desk. I thought about the Mayan legend of the bird staying with the chief while he died. In that moment I moved from the Christian symbols in the almanac to the Mayan legend, which seemed more truthful to me. The quetzal, participating in the chief’s death, had stained its own feathers with human blood.

  From his research, John had discovered that trogons were silent except during their mating season. Then, they called to one another from the sinuous heights of the cloud forests in which they resided. They sounded like children separated from their mothers. I recalled a flock of curlews I had heard near a river, wailing in the middle of the night and preventing my sleep. I had seen a nightingale once on a footpath in Shoreham when I was a child. It had such a plain body. There were tales of its exquisite voice, but I was not treated to a song. Instead, I watched as it dug for a worm in the grass like a common starling.

  I glanced at the clock and realised I was light-headed, hungry and tired from overwork, from my attempts to render a likeness of this magnificent animal.

  I studied my illustration. It was important to my husband to distinguish between the observations of natural science and folk beliefs, such as I had learned in the lecture about the Paradisaeidae. And yet, I could not let go. It was as if I were delaying returning the study skin to John’s rooms. Much as I tried to turn myself into the sort of natural history observer my husband could respect, I could not rid my imagination of its pagan elements. I was unable to separate what was mythical and entrancing about the quetzal from its behaviour in the field. Modern science laughed at such notions or, at best, found them quaint. But the godly legend surrounding the quetzal drew me in, like the lines of a poem. It satisfied a yearning that had arisen in me when confronted by the bird’s beauty. Why could I not be sated by enumerated physical descriptions, earthly manners and breeding habits? Could I not be content with birds as mere animals, bodies and matter, an animation of bone, feathers and skin, going about their daily lives? And the scientist in pursuit, cataloguing their secret habits?

  I dared not share my entrancement with my fact-conscious husband.

  I worked on my colours until the images of the quetzal’s blood-stained breast disappeared from my thoughts. When I could no longer lift my hand, I threw my dirty paint water on the fire and lit a candle. Emerging from my long engagement with the illustration, I felt the house grow solid again. I moved down the stairs as if without feet, my candle casting shadows on the walls. All around me, I heard a miasma of whispered voices, of feathery tendrils reaching for me. My skin was porous, like the quetzal’s when it had taken the Mayan chief’s blood. It was gauze, a thin cloth through which the universe drifted and poured. By the time I had descended to my bedroom on the third floor, the sensation of my skin growing transparent had started to recede. I sat at my duchess, just a woman before her mirror. The candle flickered and I imagined I saw my darling sons John and Edward gazing back at me in the shadowy glass.

  Chapter 8

  Large Ground Finch

  Geospiza magnirostris

  Golden Square, london 1837

  ‘It’s an exceptional plate, Mrs Gould.’ Our guest peered at the oversized hand-coloured print of the resplendent quetzal and then turned his vast blue-green eyes to mine, his mouth curved in a gentle smile.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Darwin. I’m quite pleased with the quetzal, despite the hours of composition it involved.’

  In truth I struggled not to laugh out loud and dance a little jig, as such praise from Mr Charles Darwin was a great compliment. The celebrated young geologist was the toast of London after returning from an extraordinary five-year collecting expedition on the HMS Beagle, and here he was in our front parlour, lavishing praise on my illustrations. I felt suddenly uncomfortable in my plain house dress and our humble front room. It was just as well Mrs Prince had visited the parlour earlier to plump the cushions and open the curtains. Thoughtfully, she had removed the stuffed Dalmation that John had left on the side table for a client to collect.

  Mr Darwin had an air that commanded attention but he also had a sense of mischief about him. For all his fashionable dress and fine manners, I could see that the explorer in him, of both the natural world and the all too human world, was never far from the surface.

  ‘The final work seems well worth the sacrifice,’ Mr Darwin pronounced, tapping a neatly-clipped fingernail on his chin. ‘I’d be glad to see one of these magnificent creatures alive.’

  ‘I agree. Many a time I dreamed of the quetzal coming to life, particularly when I began to paint its sublime feathers. I’m flattered you think I’ve captured its essence in some way. I’d be honoured if you would take the print as a gift.’

  ‘It’s my wife’s best work, I believe,’ said John proudly, beaming.

  ‘I’ll be sure to treasure it. I’ll have it put under glass and framed immediately,’ said Mr Darwin. ‘Now I must find a suitable gift among my trinkets to express my appreciation.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said John.

  ‘What about you, Mrs Gould? Surely you’ll accept a small token?’

  ‘If you insist.’ I smiled. ‘Was not your grandfather a poet? I’m an avid reader of verse. If you have a volume of his poems, perhaps I could borrow it sometime?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ said Mr Darwin. ‘I’ll have it sent over.’

  ‘I rarely have the opportunity to visit the bookseller. It used to be a pleasure of mine. But with the children—’ I broke off, catching the frank admiration in his smile. I sensed, by the way our visitor studied me, that he felt a genuine liking for women and actually enjoyed hearing what we had to say. Intuitively, I warmed to this charming and inquisitive adventurer. His bright intellect, his confidence and obvious lust for life were impossible to resist.

  Mr Darwin had sailed as companion to Captain Robert FitzRoy as part of an extraordinary expedition of explorers, navigators and crew who spent eighteen months at sea and three years on land circumnavigating the globe, negotiating the treacherous tip of southern America and visiting seve
ral Pacific islands to survey their geological and coastal formations. The mass of shells and minerals, corals and insects, birds and fossils procured from the far-flung lands of Chile, Peru, Tahiti and New Zealand had stirred the imaginations of the city’s scientific community. There was much anticipation regarding the secrets that would be revealed by Mr Darwin’s hoard.

  ‘As you know, Mr Gould,’ said Darwin, turning to John, ‘I’ve been meeting with your zoological colleagues for assistance in cataloguing my collections. The anatomist Mr Owen has discovered some rather unusual features in a species of sloth. My colleague Mr Lyell and I have had many a productive discussion regarding the peculiar geological formations of a group of South Pacific atolls. I’d be much obliged if you could turn your expertise to the ornithological material.’

  ‘Of course,’ said John. ‘As you can imagine, I’m more than eager to acquaint myself with your specimens.’ My husband reached for the bound volume of plates on the table, A Synopsis of the Birds of Australia. ‘Perhaps I should give you a sense of Eliza’s and my work. Have a glance over our latest endeavour.’

  Mr Darwin leaned forward with interest, opening the bound volume and turning its thick pages. ‘You only show the species’ upper portions?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said John. ‘The plates need only include the head and bill. If the specimen represents an unfamiliar genus, I have Eliza outline the wing and tail feathers or the claw-splay of the foot, whatever is the most interesting or significant feature. The book is a sort of field guide. My colonial collectors are not always aware of the generic attributes of a particular family or tribe, hence we provide them with a reference manual. It’s printed on octavo, which is much smaller than our usual paper size, folio, to make it easier to carry. I’m much taken with the birdlife of Australia at present. In fact, it’s all I’m putting my mind to.’

  ‘I can certainly vouch for that,’ I said, laughing. ‘I’m not allowed a moment’s rest from illustrating the skins.’

  ‘That’s true, Eliza,’ said John, reaching for my arm. ‘I’m thinking of myself. I’m afraid I do work my wife a little hard at times.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled by John’s affable demeanour,’ I joked, though I was secretly pleased to have my husband acknowledge my painstaking labours to Mr Darwin.

  John ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Short of jumping on a vessel to sail halfway around the world and view Australia’s natural systems with my own eyes, there is no way to gain a true understanding of these birds. I am destined, unfortunately, to be forced to fall back on my deductions and rely on books as references. Despite my best efforts at putting together the Synopsis, at times it feels that I’m depicting little more than a series of crowns and beaks, a listing of synonymous nomenclature in French, Greek and Latin.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mr Darwin. ‘I think your project splendid. It’s like sketching in the bare branches of the continent’s ornithology, from which will bloom its flowers and fruits, its new growth. You must start somewhere, surely. I am a little jealous of your collectors. If only I had such an aid during my travels, it would have been of immense help. Instead I waded through piles of ancient volumes to decide upon a specimen’s family or genus. So much time was wasted frowning over vellum by candlelight. And if it’s any consolation, I suspect I’ll spend the remainder of my days making sense of the creatures I’ve collected and the landscapes I’ve wandered through.’

  ‘I have my wife to thank for piquing my interest in Australia’s ornithology,’ said John. ‘In fact, without Eliza, I would never have ventured into the business of illustrating folios.’ In John’s enthusiasm to impress Mr Darwin, he had given me more compliments in the space of a few moments than in the past twelve months. ‘Elizabeth’s two brothers reside in New South Wales and ship me many an intriguing skin. I have the notion of one day putting the continent’s ornithology to order. It’s rather a muddle in its current state.

  ‘At present I’m struggling with a couple of finches they sent me,’ continued John. ‘One is a pretty little species that I’ve named the “star finch”. It was procured by Elizabeth’s brother Charles Coxen but unfortunately he only shot the one specimen and nothing of its habits is known. My brother-in-law ran out of water, rather scarce in that part of the country – it can mean the difference between life and death. He had to turn back, cutting his planned expedition short.’

  ‘It’s a terrifying circumstance to endure, I can tell you,’ said Mr Darwin. ‘I was on Charles Island, in the Galapagos Archipelago, tracing a stream of hardened lava to its source. I was quite preoccupied with my task, climbing and clawing my way over the river of basalt, and I became separated from my companions. Happening upon a vent with a lake of shimmering blue water at its base, I edged down its precarious sides hoping to quench my thirst. But the pond was stagnant brine.’

  ‘Goodness – what on earth did you do?’ I asked.

  ‘I climbed out and scrambled as fast as my feet could take me back to our camp!’ Mr Darwin laughed.

  ‘It seems each of us is driven by some wild force to obtain our ends,’ I said. ‘As my husband wrestles with a sore neck and back from his long hours of cross-referencing and descriptions to complete his classifications, I give myself blinding headaches in my quest to perfect the illustrations I make of his specimens. My latest challenge is painting the colourful zebra finch and creating the right mix of scarlet for its eyes, the chestnut for its cheeks, the black for the stripes running from its eye to its throat, the powder-grey of its crown, its burnt-orange bill, the softer shade of the upper mandible, the daub of black smudging its chest. Truly, I can think of nothing else until I capture the right shapes and colours.’

  ‘You’re not alone in your fascination. These birds do exercise a strange power over us,’ said Mr Darwin. ‘Were you aware that when New South Wales was colonised, convict, surgeon, redcoat – no matter what class – all shared a passion for the penal settlement’s birdlife? Everyone, it appeared, was in a rush to pick up a pencil and capture the bright creatures flitting about.’

  ‘How wonderful to hear. And comforting. I feel I have company. It can be challenging to represent an entirely new family. Take the chirruping wedgebill, from far western New South Wales. I had such a struggle trying to render his curious crest and do it justice.’

  ‘I’m not surprised by the colonials’ interest in their unique birdlife,’ said John. ‘Who could resist such distracting beauties?’

  ‘My dear husband is deadly serious. John finds it difficult to comprehend that most people are not as entranced with nature’s avian productions as he is. Though I should not tease.’ I smiled indulgently at John. ‘There were several lovely specimens in my brothers’ last batch. Another finch: the plum-headed. It has a distinctive purple crown and fine stripes on its breast feathers, much like the zebra finch. I’m quite fond of the family. I imagine their sweet twitters as I paint, thinking of their tiny feet balancing on a grass stem while they nibble seeds.’

  ‘I must say that in Hobarton,’ said Mr Darwin, ‘it wasn’t the gentle song of the passerine that tickled my ears. Rather, it was the ear-shattering shriek of the crested cockatoo. Not to mention the deuced wattlebird. Its ubiquitous call sounds like a gear catching. I was not sad to taste one baked in a pie.’

  ‘You are cruel,’ I said.

  ‘Collectors often eat the meat of their specimens, Eliza,’ John interrupted earnestly, ‘especially while on an expedition. It’s only practical. Though I don’t think your brother Charles would have found much meat on his finches. He’d have to eat the whole thing, bones and all.’

  ‘I saved a species of rhea from the Beagle’s cooking pot,’ said Darwin. ‘You’ll find it in the collection I’m to send over. A half-gnawed skeleton, with a bit of roasted meat flaking off. I don’t view eating specimens as particularly cruel, especially when one’s fed an unceasing diet of pork jerky. I tried a salted penguin, but didn’t care for the flavour. I was so very seasick while shipbound, I welc
omed any fresh meat broth to sip during my convalescences.’

  ‘What else did you sample? Great tarantulas? Snakes and lizards?’ I asked.

  ‘I tried locusts. They were the size of a European finch – the barbecued skins were rather crunchy, but the meat inside was soft. It’s surprising what one will eat when one’s hunger is sufficiently developed.’

  ‘It sounds perfectly horrid.’ I shuddered.

  ‘We also boiled and stewed several of the huge tortoises,’ said Mr Darwin. ‘I cannot say I was fond of the dry meat. The females were bled for their oil. It saddened me somewhat, the killing of these magnificent creatures for food. I was more partial to observing the lumbering ditherers alive. Nobody knows how long they live. Any that die seem to have come to grief through accident. They are wholly deaf, and I liked to overtake them on my walks. They scarcely moved in their meandering constitutions but whenever I passed within sight, they froze on the path and issued a low hiss. The tortoise then tucked itself inside its massive armoury, as if disappeared or seized by sudden death. I liked to climb onto their enormous hind parts and then tap the shell with my hand. Off the creature would set, with me wobbling side-saddle like a lady. It was difficult to maintain one’s balance.’

  I laughed. ‘You are merciless, you adventurers. But I will forgive you. For you paint such a picture with your stories.’ I imagined Mr Darwin, resplendent in his stylish waistcoat and jacket, polished boots, fob chain and pristine neckcloth, his precariously perched dress hat, toppling off the impressively girthed tortoise. Of course he would not have looked so elegant after such a long period at sea. His beard would have been unkempt, his clothing salt-encrusted, his skin burned by the sun. But Mr Darwin was so outwardly sophisticated and well spoken that I found it difficult to draw the two images of the man into a whole portrait. There was an uncommon meticulousness about him. Best of all, I enjoyed the interest he showed in my conversation, unaccustomed as I was to this sort of regard from gentlemen zoologists, or from gentlemen of any persuasion. It was refreshing, to say the least.