liar.”
At this word, Bowen finds his opportunity. “I must ask you this. Your bird portraits may be beautiful to look at; I have not seen them, but the captain says so. But — ‘accurate,’ ‘truthful’? You cannot paint a fact. I have seen the birds, and I doubt I would see them as you see them.”
The painter is glad to have an opponent, a man on whom to train his anger. Johnny shifts as if to back him up.
“There are men, like you, Mr. Bowen, who say that my birds are deformed, or even creatures of fantasy. There are those who call me a fraud and a man of no talent. Who do not recognize nature when it is laid out on paper before them. They are not my concern. They have not sat three feet from the nest and beheld the duck who nourishes her young from food she first digests and then regurgitates. Nor have they watched the females form teams to protect fledglings, or sink themselves in water to allow their young to rest on their backs, and watch over them with what appears to be devotion,” says Audubon. “I feel the birds in my heart.”
Bowen smiles. “I have no doubt you do. But do you not wonder if your feelings mislead?” he presses.
“No. Feeling is my compass and my sextant,” says Audubon. “It is all I have to judge by.”
“You say ‘simple’ measurement,” Bayfield says, “and you say we ‘measure against a system’ any distance from point A to point B. But that is not so. The distance is too large for us to measure. We calculate it. I measure a length, put this on a triangle, read an angle, multiply by a number. Only then do I have the distance, and it is arrived at by faith.”
“By faith ?”
“Yes. Faith in my mathematics. But faith requires imagination, don’t you agree? Triangulation is an act of the imagination. There are three points — the base which is my eye, the distant station and the immutable star.”
“Another sea captain once taught me something of this,” says Audubon, warming just perceptibly. “On the Delos .”
“Three points. Where you stand, where you strive to be and the unreachable star by which you measure.”
“I like that very much. He did not teach me that. You have laid down the coordinates of my life.”
“Of mine as well. Where I stand, where I strive to be and the fixed point which defines both. Between these three is a relation. Once you know it, it can be used to discover any distance you have not yet travelled.”
“I would like to know that prophetic relation,” says Audubon gently.
The two men join in a smile that excludes Augustus Bowen. Johnny, relieved to have gotten this far without an explosion, places his hand on the small of his father’s back.
T HEY SIT AT THE ROUND TABLE in the captain’s cabin, Bayfield and Audubon, Lieutenant Bowen, John Woodhouse and Dr. Kelly. There is an oil lamp and the smell of smoke. The soup slants in its bowls as the Gulnare strains against her anchor in the wind.
“Have you, in your rounds of potential subscribers in London, encountered my godfather, the Duke of Sussex?” Bowen enquires. “If not, I could arrange an introduction. I should think he might be useful in persuading the library of Parliament to subscribe.”
It is a mischievous remark, as he is certain his godfather would send Audubon packing.
“I am not above knocking on strange doors, Mr. Bowen. God knows I have done it. But the doors of English lords, I have generally found, are not worth the trouble. In fact, English lords in my experience are worse than English rogues.”
Bowen flushes red, while Kelly hides a smile: he has suffered far too many references to the duke on this journey.
“Take the Marchioness of Hereford,” says Audubon. “An ignorant woman. I am told she papered her walls with the prints from my first volume. And the British Museum, which subscribed from the beginning, is so far behind on its payments that we are going to suspend delivery. I have no time to deal with these matters. My son Victor
At this word, Bowen finds his opportunity. “I must ask you this. Your bird portraits may be beautiful to look at; I have not seen them, but the captain says so. But — ‘accurate,’ ‘truthful’? You cannot paint a fact. I have seen the birds, and I doubt I would see them as you see them.”
The painter is glad to have an opponent, a man on whom to train his anger. Johnny shifts as if to back him up.
“There are men, like you, Mr. Bowen, who say that my birds are deformed, or even creatures of fantasy. There are those who call me a fraud and a man of no talent. Who do not recognize nature when it is laid out on paper before them. They are not my concern. They have not sat three feet from the nest and beheld the duck who nourishes her young from food she first digests and then regurgitates. Nor have they watched the females form teams to protect fledglings, or sink themselves in water to allow their young to rest on their backs, and watch over them with what appears to be devotion,” says Audubon. “I feel the birds in my heart.”
Bowen smiles. “I have no doubt you do. But do you not wonder if your feelings mislead?” he presses.
“No. Feeling is my compass and my sextant,” says Audubon. “It is all I have to judge by.”
“You say ‘simple’ measurement,” Bayfield says, “and you say we ‘measure against a system’ any distance from point A to point B. But that is not so. The distance is too large for us to measure. We calculate it. I measure a length, put this on a triangle, read an angle, multiply by a number. Only then do I have the distance, and it is arrived at by faith.”
“By faith ?”
“Yes. Faith in my mathematics. But faith requires imagination, don’t you agree? Triangulation is an act of the imagination. There are three points — the base which is my eye, the distant station and the immutable star.”
“Another sea captain once taught me something of this,” says Audubon, warming just perceptibly. “On the Delos .”
“Three points. Where you stand, where you strive to be and the unreachable star by which you measure.”
“I like that very much. He did not teach me that. You have laid down the coordinates of my life.”
“Of mine as well. Where I stand, where I strive to be and the fixed point which defines both. Between these three is a relation. Once you know it, it can be used to discover any distance you have not yet travelled.”
“I would like to know that prophetic relation,” says Audubon gently.
The two men join in a smile that excludes Augustus Bowen. Johnny, relieved to have gotten this far without an explosion, places his hand on the small of his father’s back.
T HEY SIT AT THE ROUND TABLE in the captain’s cabin, Bayfield and Audubon, Lieutenant Bowen, John Woodhouse and Dr. Kelly. There is an oil lamp and the smell of smoke. The soup slants in its bowls as the Gulnare strains against her anchor in the wind.
“Have you, in your rounds of potential subscribers in London, encountered my godfather, the Duke of Sussex?” Bowen enquires. “If not, I could arrange an introduction. I should think he might be useful in persuading the library of Parliament to subscribe.”
It is a mischievous remark, as he is certain his godfather would send Audubon packing.
“I am not above knocking on strange doors, Mr. Bowen. God knows I have done it. But the doors of English lords, I have generally found, are not worth the trouble. In fact, English lords in my experience are worse than English rogues.”
Bowen flushes red, while Kelly hides a smile: he has suffered far too many references to the duke on this journey.
“Take the Marchioness of Hereford,” says Audubon. “An ignorant woman. I am told she papered her walls with the prints from my first volume. And the British Museum, which subscribed from the beginning, is so far behind on its payments that we are going to suspend delivery. I have no time to deal with these matters. My son Victor
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