he could not let them go.
The artist and his boy climbed aboard and rode the rounds, eventually coming back with empty cart to Bachman’s house. It was a greatsquare mansion with balconies on two levels, set in brilliant gardens and fanned by a breeze off the sea. As they entered, a frail woman came briefly to greet them. This was his wife, Harriet, Bachman explained. Withdrawing, she called her younger sister to entertain. After she had faded down the hall he explained: the granddaughter of a Revolutionary hero, she had seven living children, two daughters and five sons. Five other children had died of tuberculosis. The exertions of producing this dozen, the combination of their living and their dying, had sent her almost permanently to her couch.
Into the parlour walked Miss Maria Martin, as quick as her sister was languid. She was tiny, like a child, but her face brought the light of day into the shuttered drawing room. She greeted Audubon in French, the language which was dear to him. As she put the two girls through their curtsies, and gave instructions to the slaves to accommodate their guests, he could not stop looking at her. She was not beautiful. Or not what he had ever thought of as beautiful. She was like a little brown sparrow. He was fascinated by the bright receptivity of each part of her face and figure to every voice, every nuance, each glance.
After dinner the men repaired to the low-ceilinged study on the ground floor. There, under the eye of the great stuffed horned owl, between the two giant globes, one of the earth and one of the stars, amid the leather-bound books, the bottled reptiles and freaks of nature, the caged screech-owl and the pet muskrat, they worked. Audubon and his new friend exchanged notes on birds while the boy assistant sat down to paint some backgrounds.
Later that night Audubon wrote Lucy, elated, of his good fortune in this friendly town, of his new friend John Bachman, the house full of children, and the sister-in-law, who he had been told was a promising artist.
How was it that Maria ended up in the library den working with the men? It must have been that she offered to help, and they found within hours that they could not do without her. Already she had been drawing flowers for Bachman’s books. She wanted to learn. Still, Audubon cannot claim his pleasure in teaching her to draw was free of the enjoyment he had in merely sitting across from her and looking ather face. The down-turned eyes with their full lids, the tiny mouth set carefully, lips softly together but never pressed, the pointed chin and nose, the width of her forehead showing intelligence, the modesty disguising much strength. He drank it in.
Maria. He practised her name. It seemed too ordinary for her. But that was its magic, and hers, to be hidden in this modesty.
To feel this way was not new, to him.
There were women like her everywhere he landed. Intelligent, accomplished and lovely. They offered him their sympathies and he offered them his ardent admiration.
Maria tried inordinately to please; she would work for hours correcting a mistake. That, and all the household tasks that were hers — to teach the children French, to oversee the laundry and the cooking — ought to have tired her. But she could match his energy, and give it back to him. When all the others at last gave up trying to meet his demands, there she was, patient, calm, perfect. Attentive. And soon, affectionate.
They rose at dawn, before the children were up, to walk in the garden. He watched the birds and she named the flowers for him while the air was cool, and the household at bay, as the scent of the roses came on. They sat together; she sketched botanical specimens while he painted. She wanted to draw the birds, but he kept her busy with the cane vine, the loblolly bay. In the evenings the three of them, Maria, John Bachman and he, sat in the study and were happy, working.
In this way two months went by while he waited for that
The artist and his boy climbed aboard and rode the rounds, eventually coming back with empty cart to Bachman’s house. It was a greatsquare mansion with balconies on two levels, set in brilliant gardens and fanned by a breeze off the sea. As they entered, a frail woman came briefly to greet them. This was his wife, Harriet, Bachman explained. Withdrawing, she called her younger sister to entertain. After she had faded down the hall he explained: the granddaughter of a Revolutionary hero, she had seven living children, two daughters and five sons. Five other children had died of tuberculosis. The exertions of producing this dozen, the combination of their living and their dying, had sent her almost permanently to her couch.
Into the parlour walked Miss Maria Martin, as quick as her sister was languid. She was tiny, like a child, but her face brought the light of day into the shuttered drawing room. She greeted Audubon in French, the language which was dear to him. As she put the two girls through their curtsies, and gave instructions to the slaves to accommodate their guests, he could not stop looking at her. She was not beautiful. Or not what he had ever thought of as beautiful. She was like a little brown sparrow. He was fascinated by the bright receptivity of each part of her face and figure to every voice, every nuance, each glance.
After dinner the men repaired to the low-ceilinged study on the ground floor. There, under the eye of the great stuffed horned owl, between the two giant globes, one of the earth and one of the stars, amid the leather-bound books, the bottled reptiles and freaks of nature, the caged screech-owl and the pet muskrat, they worked. Audubon and his new friend exchanged notes on birds while the boy assistant sat down to paint some backgrounds.
Later that night Audubon wrote Lucy, elated, of his good fortune in this friendly town, of his new friend John Bachman, the house full of children, and the sister-in-law, who he had been told was a promising artist.
How was it that Maria ended up in the library den working with the men? It must have been that she offered to help, and they found within hours that they could not do without her. Already she had been drawing flowers for Bachman’s books. She wanted to learn. Still, Audubon cannot claim his pleasure in teaching her to draw was free of the enjoyment he had in merely sitting across from her and looking ather face. The down-turned eyes with their full lids, the tiny mouth set carefully, lips softly together but never pressed, the pointed chin and nose, the width of her forehead showing intelligence, the modesty disguising much strength. He drank it in.
Maria. He practised her name. It seemed too ordinary for her. But that was its magic, and hers, to be hidden in this modesty.
To feel this way was not new, to him.
There were women like her everywhere he landed. Intelligent, accomplished and lovely. They offered him their sympathies and he offered them his ardent admiration.
Maria tried inordinately to please; she would work for hours correcting a mistake. That, and all the household tasks that were hers — to teach the children French, to oversee the laundry and the cooking — ought to have tired her. But she could match his energy, and give it back to him. When all the others at last gave up trying to meet his demands, there she was, patient, calm, perfect. Attentive. And soon, affectionate.
They rose at dawn, before the children were up, to walk in the garden. He watched the birds and she named the flowers for him while the air was cool, and the household at bay, as the scent of the roses came on. They sat together; she sketched botanical specimens while he painted. She wanted to draw the birds, but he kept her busy with the cane vine, the loblolly bay. In the evenings the three of them, Maria, John Bachman and he, sat in the study and were happy, working.
In this way two months went by while he waited for that
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