Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  ‘Your tales stir in me an extraordinary jealousy, if you must know,’ said John. ‘How I would love to set sail on an expedition. Do you not agree, Eliza?’

  ‘It is indeed tempting. Perhaps I could be persuaded.’

  ‘There’s no need to feel envy, Mr Gould. You are young. You’ve the means. What is stopping you from embarking on your own expedition? A journey by someone with your expertise would add significant pieces to the ornithological puzzle. Maybe a voyage to Australia is in order?’

  John gave a wistful smile. ‘An interesting thought. I’ve a correspondent in Van Diemen’s Land who’s suggested the very same thing. Ah, Mr Darwin, you’ll send me back to my notebooks twitching with the longing for adventure.’

  Mr Darwin departed with the quetzal plate rolled under his arm and an agreement from John to begin work classifying his Beagle specimens. When the consignment arrived the following afternoon I was thrilled to discover that Mr Darwin had kept his word, including a small bound copy of Erasmus Darwin’s verses, The Temple of Nature.

  I do not think John had a lick of sleep that busy week in January. Once the boxes of specimens were unpacked and laid out on the stuffing tables, my husband’s head reeled with the task of organising the curious species, sourced from the remote forests, plains, marshes, deserts and coasts that the geologist had explored. At dinner John complained that although Darwin had provided copious descriptions of the habitats and behaviours of the bird species he had gathered, he had a queer method of tagging them, affixing a label that showed the creature’s name only. Vital information such as collector, place and time of procurement, which by convention was recorded on all ornithological field labels, was instead cross-referenced by a numerical sequence to Darwin’s diary entries. John supposed it was the method of the geologist, unable to tag his boxes of rocks and stones. To further confuse matters, it appeared half the notes that corresponded to Mr Darwin’s numbered specimen tags were missing.

  To classify the 350 ornithological species that Darwin had supplied, John was forced to rely on morphological observations and his own reference collections. During six mad days of cataloguing, my husband worked to herd the clutch into order and, on the seventh day, unlike our Lord, he did not rest but instead delivered his findings to the Zoological Society. Darwin had obtained thirty-seven species new to science during his five years of travel. The majority, some twenty-six, were taken during his survey of the volcanic archipelago of the Galapagos, six hundred miles west of Ecuador. Charles and James Islands, two of the larger formations, were bleak and deserted landscapes, the soils harsh and dry, the surface bereft of vegetation excepting some hardy coastal species and prickly cacti. The islands showed a lack of insect and mammal varieties but housed many species of birds, as well as an impressive range of reptiles, most notably the fearsome iguana lizard and the gargantuan tortoise.

  After delivering his paper on Darwin’s discoveries, John made a second presentation, describing several new Australian species shipped by my brothers. However, the response to John’s talk on Darwin’s Galapagos specimens was overwhelming, sparking a deluge of questions and comments from the society’s members. Filled with enthusiasm, John returned to his office, determined to further investigate the geologist’s consignment. As I had expected, my husband’s punishing schedule soon ate into my own. But to my surprise, John instructed me in no uncertain terms to halt work on the Australian offerings from Charles and Stephen; instead, I was to devote my efforts to depicting Mr Darwin’s curious avian treasures.

  Hence on green leaves the sexual Pleasures dwell,

  And Loves and Beauties crowd the blossom’s bell;

  The wakeful Anther in his silken bed

  O’er the pleas’d Stigma bows his waxen head;

  With meeting lips, and mingling smiles, they sup

  Ambrosial dew-drops from the nectar’d cup;

  Or buoy’d in air the plumy Lover springs,

  And seeks his panting bride on Hymen-wings.

  Hearing footsteps on the landing, I hastily hid the book of Erasmus Darwin’s poetry in my lap. Not only did his verses cause my cheeks to flush as I unravelled their metaphors, but I had also become so caught up that I had neglected the tray of skins John wished me to draw. How was it that I had never read the late Mr Darwin’s verses? Was it that a lady must not be exposed to such notions? I must make more time for reading, I decided, casting a resentful glance at the fat grey mockingbird awaiting my attention.

  ‘Eliza!’ said John, bursting into the room.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, patting my warm cheeks.

  ‘I have something to show you,’ said John. ‘I need your thoughts – now!’

  I observed my husband’s alert, excited state. ‘I’m about to take the children to the pantomime at Hyde Park. Cousin Sarah’s joining us.’ Henry had been talking to Charlie about the performance for days, and even my youngest, Lizzie, who had not quite reached her first year, was aware of an impending adventure. ‘I’ve been looking forward to getting out of this blessed studio all week. Do you not recall me mentioning the outing at breakfast?’

  ‘Forgive my oversight,’ John said brusquely. I could tell by his voice that he was in no mood to be dissuaded. ‘But this matter is urgent. It cannot wait. Surely Sarah and Joanne can manage without you?’

  ‘Very well,’ I conceded. ‘Just give me a moment to wash up and explain it to them.’

  Once I had seen Sarah, Joanne and the children off, John bustled me down the stairs to the stuffing room. ‘I think I’ve made a discovery of great ornithological significance,’ he exclaimed.

  Inside the laboratory, the head stuffer, Mr Baker, had laid out a sequence of black birds from Mr Darwin’s Galapagos collection. There were nine species in the series, with jet or soot-black plumages. ‘Take a seat,’ said John, ‘while I try to explain.’

  Mr Baker and Mr Prince sat at the working bench, Mr Prince with a ledger open to take notes, and Mr Baker on hand to lift a wing or turn over a specimen should John wish to demonstrate a particular feature to me.

  I glanced at the row of plain black birds arranged from largest to smallest in size. Try as I might, I could not fathom the source of my husband’s animation.

  ‘What do you notice about the specimens?’ John asked.

  ‘That they are ordered by size? That their bills are similar?’ I replied.

  ‘That’s exactly it,’ said John, thumping the table. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Oh, you are a canny woman.’

  ‘It seems rather obvious.’

  ‘The largest species in the series, Geospizinae magnirostris, has a bill the size of a mockingbird’s; the second, with a similarly-shaped beak, but ever so slightly smaller, appears to have the mandibles of a grosbeak. And so it goes, the proportions of each species’ bill decreasing in scale until the eye falls upon the final specimen, Certhidea olivacea, whose feeding apparatus resembles a common warbler’s.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I do not see the significance.’

  ‘In his field notes,’ said John, ‘Mr Darwin classified the series as belonging to four different passerine orders: warblers, grosbeaks, blackbirds and finches. But, according to my investigations, each specimen in the sequence is a member of the same family, Fringillidae, the finches. No less than six are of the closely related genus Geospiza, a name I’ve designated to mean “ground finch”.’

  I nodded, wondering if Sarah had secured the children a good place to view the pantomime show.

  ‘It seems there is certain information missing from Mr Darwin’s notes. I’ve written to check if he can find the relevant entries in his journals. When I have the new material, I’m going to make a presentation to the Zoological Society. If what I’ve observed is correct then I’m flying in the face of convention. My findings suggest that our current taxonomic system has a serious oversight. I’ll try to explain it to you. It’ll help me to structure my paper.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ I said, noticing a dull pain in my lower back
. I wondered whether I should go to the apothecary or call the physician to cup my back. Perhaps I should be bled.

  ‘In the European system,’ said John, ‘it’s accepted that certain features – a bird’s plumage, for instance – change across species that belong to a specific genus. Other qualities – the structure of the skeleton, how the feet clutch a perch, the capacity of the wings – are more stable qualities, used in discerning higher categories of classification, the orders and families. However, Mr Darwin’s sequence seems to refute these assumptions. A species’ bill, regarded as a fixed characteristic, shows much variation within a single genus of Darwin’s finches, whereas the plumages of the different species are nearly identical. I’m working on a theory that the species’ beaks have altered in size in response to the different plants available on the various islands. I’m wondering if the geographical isolation of the archipelago has any relation to my ideas, but I need Mr Darwin’s notes to further develop my thoughts.’

  At last the reason for John’s enthusiasm became apparent. If he was correct, this was a groundbreaking discovery indeed because it brought into question the traditional ornithological approach to differentiating species’ genera and families. ‘This is wonderful,’ I said. ‘What an incredible find. You truly deserve this after the work you have put in. How do you imagine your findings might be received?’

  ‘I’ll need to mount a persuasive argument, but I have no doubts that with the assistance of Mr Baker and Mr Prince here, there is a strong chance of success. The quality of changeability is an exceedingly helpful observation with respect to the tribes we’ve encountered from Australia. But I’ll also need your help, Elizabeth – your illustrations will be vital to our case.’

  ‘You will have it. Do you know, this finding of yours might just be the push I need. I’ve been lacking in motivation of late. Thank you for sharing this with me.’

  As I looked up at him, I could see that his mind had already moved on to tackling the next challenge that this find presented. I knew my husband too well. After all the excitement of discovery he would now shift his formidable focus to having his findings recognised.

  ‘Eliza, how are you keeping up with the sketching? I know I’ve given you a considerable load of work.’

  ‘I have begun the mockingbird,’ I lied.

  ‘If you are able, can you complete the finch sequence by the end of the week? You’ll be happy to know that Mr Darwin has invited me to write the bird section of the book he’s to publish about his voyage. He’s requested that you provide the illustrations. What are your thoughts? An honour, surely?’

  ‘Yes, it most definitely is,’ I agreed. And although I could appreciate the privilege and recognition in being granted such opportunity, in all honesty I felt a little overwhelmed at the prospect of embarking on another substantial drawing project. ‘Though I’m unsure how I’ll fit in the extra work.’

  ‘Can you do this for me?’ John pleaded, taking my hands in his. ‘Once I’ve finished classifying Darwin’s curiosities, you can rest. When you resume work on A Synopsis of the Birds of Australia, you can sketch the remainder of Darwin’s specimens at leisure. We’re to produce a second volume of the Australian field guide. Another cache arrived from your brothers yesterday.’

  This concession at least was a relief. John’s passion for classifying new species sometimes made him a hard task master. Nothing motivated my husband more than the thought of his name being forever associated with the description of a newly discovered bird. While I supported him wholeheartedly, I was often left exhausted by the combination of my domestic and lithographic duties. In the last few months John had worked with a greater intensity than ever before. I yearned for the sound of Lear’s pelican-topped walking stick tapping on my studio door. Oh, how I longed for his tricks to fill the hours I passed wrestling with my brushes. But Lear had escaped my husband’s clutches, joining an artists’ colony in Rome as he had threatened.

  In Lear’s absence, John had become reliant on my interpretations of his rough designs, rarely needing to consult me. We had developed a sort of secret language. I now required only a few brisk lines in order to interpret John’s ideas. Although I appreciated the trust he had placed in me, I had to confess that sometimes I sorely missed those early years of our marriage when we had more time to talk things over together and savour our precious moments alone.

  Chapter 9

  Black Honeyeater

  Sugomel niger

  Golden Square, london 1838

  My sixth turn at bringing a child from my body felt like reeling a box kite to ground, pulling against the gusting air, balancing the balsa frame and wind-supported canvas. One had to maintain the correct tautness of the line for the fragile skin not to tear, nor the delicate frame to twist. It was a tethering, a returning to earth.

  In the days leading to my confinement, I looked with fresh eyes at my bed and its starched ruffles and frills, my down-filled pillow, my woollen blankets, the flicker of the lamp inside its finely etched glass casing. Though my cares about my husband’s plates had been at the forefront of my mind during the final months of my pregnancy, they now receded to an unknown fold of tissue and I forgot the importance I had attached to my mission of complying with his wishes. Like some spineless sea creature, I revelled in the semiconscious state of lying in.

  The boundaries of the yellow-pink form of my infant daughter were barely discernible from the edges of my own body. I took in her especial cry and traced with swollen fingers the bumps and angles of her unique anatomy, imagining the parts that rose and beat beneath her skin, the tiny bones and muscles, the layer of protective fat. Like a broody swan I drew my new baby close, feeding and caring for her, breathing her in, sleeping in her presence, my every move controlled by her needs. Until, out of the plush funk of ribbons and muslin, of cotton swaddling cloths and breastmilk, blood and sleepless nights, enough days had passed and the period of drifting back into my body concluded.

  John sat in a chair before the fire, a side table pulled up in front of him bearing his ledger, slide rule and pen, along with a stack of correspondence.

  ‘I thought you wanted to spend time with me? I did not know you meant to work,’ I said, sweeping my hand at the smoke from his smouldering cigar. ‘Can you not leave this until the morning?’

  ‘Port?’ asked John, motioning to the decanter on the sideboard. He poured a generous finger of gin for himself.

  ‘I’m all right for now,’ I replied, poking at the fire. If he insisted on working, then I would please myself. The bookshelf beckoned. I picked out Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, an old favourite. Returning to my chair, I unfolded the rug I liked to warm my knees with and opened the novel.

  John closed his ledger. ‘I wish to run an idea by you,’ he said. ‘I’m considering resigning my position as Curator and Preserver for the Zoological Society.’

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ I said, ‘I’ve been expecting such a decision from you. You are overworked and we have no need for the added income. I always thought you continued overseeing their collection out of loyalty. It would be wonderful if you slowed your pace. Maybe we should take a holiday and celebrate?’

  John’s eyes lit up. He leaned forward eagerly. ‘Yes, that’s been on my mind, though perhaps more of a working holiday.’

  ‘You wish to visit Scotland?’ I ventured. ‘We could take the locomotive to Birmingham. It would be an adventure. The children could escape London’s noise and foul air. Are you planning for the summer?’

  Sir William Jardine, the eminent ornithologist, had issued an open invitation for us to visit his Edinburgh estate. John was keen to inspect his friend’s private collection, and this would be a perfect opportunity to take Sir William up on his offer. I also enjoyed the company of Mrs Jardine. She was a practical, friendly woman whose kindness and good humour I greatly admired, and she was devoted to my children.

  ‘What I’m thinking about is more drastic,’ said John. ‘I want to follow Darwin’s lead
and become a Corresponding Fellow of the Zoological Society.’

  ‘I see.’ The term ‘Corresponding Fellow’ stuck to my tongue like a piece of dry bread. This was indeed a drastic change of course. These fellows were the adventurers who went out in the field and found the specimens for us all to study. The letters detailing the discoveries by these much envied individuals were read aloud at meetings to the delight of the attendees. The exotic plumages that the expeditioners glimpsed in some jungle canopy’s heights; the unique manners of breeding that we could only guess at and they saw first-hand; the sweat-soaked climate; the encounters with fat spiders and torpid slugs; the tangled vines on which their clothing ripped – these were all exclaimed over. ‘You wish to travel further afield?’

  ‘Yes,’ said John. ‘Now more than ever. An exchange with Vigors prompted my thinking. I showed him the specimen of the black honeyeater which Stephen shot for us. Vigors contradicted my choice of generic name, Myzomela, to suck honey. He thinks it too broad; he believes there are many more species yet to be described, that the terminology’s too loose. Indeed that may be the case but his objections infuriated me. I became incensed at him for questioning my classification. Who but me has spent the past two years examining the birds of Australia? Later, when I calmed down, I reflected on my response. Why had I flown off the handle, I wondered? And then it came to me. Vigors had put his finger on the problem I had discussed with Mr Darwin and unwittingly confirmed how to resolve it. My dreams of exploration began to have substance. I need to observe the colony’s tribes with my own eyes. In short, to seriously consider making an expedition to Australia.’ John sat forward in the chair, his eyes glittering.