Under a Wild Sky (34 page)

On May 17, 1826, at seven o'clock in the evening, a steam-driven tender pulled alongside the
Delos
, put a line on her, and for the next ten
hours towed her down through the Mississippi Delta and out into the Gulf of Mexico.
Once clear of land, the ship began to roll and Audubon was immediately seasick.
While he stayed up on deck to settle his stomach, Audubon diverted himself by drawing an almost perfect replica of the state seal of Louisiana on his letter from the governor.

13

EDINBURGH

Sylvia aestiva
: The Yellow-Poll Warbler

Its sojourn is of short duration in Louisiana, for it moves gradually eastward as the season advances, leaving nothing but the recollection of its passage through the land.

—Ornithological Biography

I
t was raining when Audubon stepped onto the wharf in Liverpool on July 21, 1826, after sixty-six brutal days at sea. New Orleans had been scarcely out of sight when Audubon regretted his decision to come that way rather than via New York. The Gulf of Mexico was dull and airless in the summer, or raked by eastern trade winds that checked the ship's progress. The heat was tremendous and most of the passengers chose to sleep on deck beneath a large awning. Repeatedly becalmed, the
Delos
needed almost three weeks to reach Cuba. The crew catered to Audubon's curiosity about every kind of creature, however. When he wasn't shooting and drawing seabirds, Audubon dissected and sketched the fish the crew brought over the side. There was a big shark and many dolphin fish. One day a crewman harpooned a “porpoise,” using a five-pronged spear called a grains. The animal—actually a bottle-nosed dolphin, a mammal—was hauled aboard by its tail. Audubon noted the large quantity of black-looking blood that issued from the wound and took a step back when the animal gave out a loud groan and died. Audubon killed time sketching the crew and his fellow passengers. The officers of the ship, a capable lot, wore tall top hats.

The North Atlantic proved much the same as the Gulf—only cold instead of hot. The
Delos
moved imperceptibly to the east, spending long days rolling on a glassy ocean with no wind. Audubon suffered when they
were becalmed and equally when they were under way. Anytime the wind picked up and the ship gathered speed, he became seasick. The
Delos
moved beneath his feet in ways he could never anticipate, so that Audubon felt constantly buffeted and off-balance. Eating was often hard. When Audubon cut into a large cheese and maggots poured out of it, his stomach revolted.

As the days wore on, Audubon thought about his life, replaying his triumphs and mistakes over and over, preoccupied by “curious fits of thoughts.” When his meditations turned to Lucy, a “confusedness of ideas” rushed through his mind and he wrote in his journal that it made him feel as if he were traveling through a “dismal, heavy snowstorm.” Audubon did not record—at least not coherently—his feelings about his purpose in going to England, though this must have been much on his mind as well. On its face, it was a preposterous undertaking. Audubon had no clear plan. He thought he might find a way to sell his drawings, or possibly copy them for sale. Or he would be happy to find a position as an artist and naturalist in residence at one of England's fine, musty museums. Of course, Audubon dared dream that he might publish his drawings with an engraver—as Catesby and Wilson had done. But this was an idea so presumptuous it must have struck him as absurd even to think about it. Audubon had more than four times as many drawings as Wilson—and they were huge! Engraving and printing them would require the most ambitious, time-consuming, and labor-intensive publishing enterprise in history. And one that would be by far the most expensive. How could Audubon, a humble backwoodsman with no reputation and no money, dare hope he could land in a new country and pull it off?

A more dismaying realization may have been that he seemed to have little choice but to try. When, after his retreat from Philadelphia, Audubon feared he might die “unknown,” it was the first time he ever admitted to himself the importance of gaining acclaim for his bird drawings. For most of his life until then, Audubon had told himself he was a businessman with a hobby. And while he often imagined one day completing his study of American birds, he had never formed a concrete objective beyond that. Now he shuddered at the prospect of continuing as a teacher, toiling for a pittance to instruct the distracted children of rich Southern farmers—though he had no qualms about relieving his wife of the money she had earned doing exactly that. For a long time Audubon had been
able to tell himself that if all else failed, someday, somewhere, he could make a living painting birds. But when he went aboard the
Delos
, he was taking the final step. If he failed now, he failed at everything.

Early one evening on the ship, Audubon and another passenger drank a bottle of porter. Audubon, retiring to the cabin to write in his journal, apparently found another bottle to keep his glass full. In a long entry marked by increasingly unsteady handwriting, Audubon free-associated about his trip. He had long dreaded the voyage itself, he wrote, and now that he was at sea being “swung about, rolled, heaved, bruised and shifted around probably around half a million times,” it was even worse than he had anticipated. His thoughts lurched wildly. Audubon reported sighting near the ship a bird never before described by anyone and wondered where George Ord, an “academician” of all things, came off questioning his veracity as a naturalist. The world was full of things nobody knew anything about. If Audubon said a turkey could swim—because he'd seen it with his own eyes—then who was Ord to laugh at him? But then who was he to be going off to Europe? Audubon wondered “where the devil” he was running to. England? The home of Milton and Shakespeare? The country that cried for Byron? The room whirled. Audubon seemed suddenly intimidated. “Oh England,” he wrote shakily, “renowned isle! How shall I enter thee? Good God, what have I pronounced—am I fit to enter her dominions at all? My heart swells.”

As it got dark in the cabin, Audubon started to write about his feelings for Lucy. But he thought better of it and instead fell drunkenly into bed.

Even though it was the middle of summer, the streets of Liverpool were choked with coal smoke. Audubon—always sensitive to smoke—rubbed his eyes and wheezed. But looking around, he saw a world that was totally new to him. He found an inn and had breakfast, happy to take a meal on solid ground. Although he felt lonely, Audubon was impressed by the polite way people offered him directions.
Several times as he walked through town, Audubon stopped short, startled by the sudden clatter of approaching hooves. But on turning to look for a horse bearing down on him, Audubon saw only plump Englishwomen walking along, their stiff heels clacking noisily against the cobblestones. They were quite pretty, he thought, with fresh, rosy complexions and lovely figures. There was some confusion at the customs house about his drawings—nobody had
ever seen such a portfolio before. In the end Audubon was charged a duty of two pennies on each of the paintings.

Audubon checked into a hotel called the Commercial Inn. Three days later, he surprised himself by sleeping in until ten o'clock. It was the beginning of a momentous day. He joked to himself that something in the air he was breathing or the food he was eating must have undermined his normal discipline of rising with the birds at dawn. Perhaps this was a reverse example of the “degeneration” the great Comte de Buffon had believed took place in America. Audubon wished he could have met Buffon, whom he deemed a true original, a man who had cast both “light” and “shade” over the study of natural history.

When he went later that day to call on Richard Rathbone, the man to whom Vincent Nolte had recommended him, Audubon did not imagine the sudden change in his fortunes that was about to take place. After tracking him down and being invited for lunch, Audubon went to Rathbone's house and waited anxiously in the dining room for his host to appear. Staring out the window, Audubon broke into a sweat and for an instant felt he was about to lose his nerve altogether. Presently, Rathbone appeared and greeted him like a long-absent relative. They were joined at lunch by Rathbone's wife and children. Audubon, unable to eat a bite, simply looked and listened, amazed at the handsomeness and refinement of this family. That evening, the Rathbones took Audubon to an art exhibition. The next day Audubon packed one of his several portfolios and went back. He ended up joining the family on an excursion to their country estate, Green Bank, a short distance from the city. Audubon thought the countryside lovely beyond description. At Green Bank, he was introduced to Rathbone's mother, his brother William, and several young Rathbone women. Noticing the well-executed bird drawings on the walls of the house when he started to untie his own portfolio, Audubon told himself not to rush. As he fumbled with the string, he felt his heart pounding “like a pheasant's.” But his fear soon disappeared. Turning the huge pages, each one a window onto his life in America, Audubon was elated as the Rathbones told him again and again how wonderful his drawings were. The Rathbones fairly glowed in his mind. They were like “celestial beings” to him. On his return to the city that evening, Audubon could barely contain his emotions when Rathbone said good night and ordered the carriage to take Audubon on to his hotel.

The Rathbones, both Richard and William, turned out to be fabulously
well connected. Their family had gotten rich in the cotton business and their father had also been a prominent abolitionist. The sons knew all of the city's richest and most influential people, and William would one day be elected mayor of Liverpool. Audubon, clueless and overwhelmed, could not have invented better or more influential patrons for himself. Over the course of several weeks, the Rathbones arranged for Audubon to meet a succession of Liverpool's leading lights, all of whom quickly converted to ardent admirers.
One of these was William Roscoe, a neighbor of the Rathbones who was a writer, historian, naturalist, and art fancier. Shortly after Richard Rathbone and Roscoe hosted a dinner for Audubon, at which he was introduced to still more local celebrities, the Liverpool Royal Institution invited Audubon to exhibit his drawings in their hall for three days, beginning the last day of July. Audubon visited the hall over the weekend—to judge the light, he said—and also went to church.

Despite the sudden, vertiginous embrace of Liverpool's upper crust, Audubon worried about a few things. He'd had no word from Lucy yet. And he was unsure how to make his presence known to Lucy's sister Ann, whom he had not seen in many years but who was living in Liverpool after marrying a Scottish man named Gordon. In fact, upon his arrival, Audubon had briefly met Gordon and sensed that he might not be entirely welcome to call on his sister-in-law. Eventually he went to see her. It was awkward at first—Audubon kissed her and she did not kiss him back, apparently not convinced as to who he was. But as they spoke, Ann warmed to him. Soon they were talking about old times. Once she'd recovered from her surprise, Ann told Audubon he ought to cut his hair, a suggestion he didn't act on. Later, Audubon—writing in his journal as if he were speaking directly to Lucy—went on at some length about a friend of Ann's who was also present, a Miss Donathan, whose hair he found singularly beautiful. This kind of insensitive description of the attractiveness of other women would gradually become habitual in Audubon's correspondence to his wife.

On Monday, July 31, Audubon got to the Royal Institution three hours early to set up his drawings in its gallery. He selected nearly half of what he had, mounting them on purple plush. It must have seemed almost unreal that he had arrived in Liverpool a stranger only ten days before. At five minutes to noon, when the exhibition was to commence, he began watching the seconds tick by on his watch. When the doors opened, a
great crowd, including many ladies, rushed in and at once began to sigh at the magnificence of Audubon's birds. More than four hundred people turned out in the space of two hours. It was the same the next day and the day after. The exhibition was held over. Audubon increased the number of drawings on display and was ecstatic when Ann, Mr. Gordon, and Miss Donathan attended the exhibition. Audubon was introduced to so many people he complained of fatigue from bowing. In the dining room at his hotel, everyone suddenly seemed to know who he was. Audubon now stepped lightly through the streets of Liverpool, memorizing their names and learning to navigate the city after dark. He liked England very much. The weather in August reminded him of early spring in America. Liverpool was lit by gas streetlights at night, and the shops lining the walks were warm and inviting. Audubon had expected the city to be crowded, but instead he found the streets pleasantly uncongested. The staff of the Royal Institution, stunned at the enthusiastic turnout for the free display of Audubon's drawings, suggested that he not only continue the exhibit but also start charging admission. Audubon was tempted. But he was concerned that showing his drawings for money would somehow cheapen them—and also discredit him as a naturalist and a man of science. The Rathbones and Roscoe offered conflicting advice, and in the end Audubon decided to keep the exhibition free. Head spinning, Audubon packed up his portfolio one morning in early August and was taken by carriage to the home of a man named Adam Hodgson. Hodgson, the recipient of Vincent Nolte's second letter of introduction, was a business partner of the Rathbones. He had arranged for Audubon to meet Lord Stanley.

Edward Stanley—Lord Stanley—was in a few years to become the thirteenth Earl of Derby. He was a member of Parliament and a naturalist of great stature in his own right. He had a keen interest in British birds.
As a young man he had studied Buffon's work, and had since amassed a notable collection of bird drawings and specimens. Audubon was beside himself at the prospect of meeting Stanley, and quizzed Hodgson at length about how he should act.
When Stanley was introduced and led into the room, Audubon's hair—according to his hilarious confession in his journal—literally stood on end. He felt he must have surely looked like a porcupine. Lord Stanley, exhibiting the ease and impeccable manners that Audubon had come to expect of Englishmen—though not necessarily
from one of such elevated stature—greeted him warmly. Stanley was ten years older than Audubon. He was, Audubon noted, a fine-looking man, with lively eyes, a high forehead, and luxuriant sideburns that framed his face. As Audubon gaped, Stanley politely inquired about his drawings.