“I want,” said Peggy, “an audience with the King.”

3

Painted Birds

Jean-Jacques Audubon soon forgot the strangeness of painting from a live bird and concentrated on colors and shapes. Arthur and Alvin both sat in the grass behind him, watching the goose come to life on the paper. To Arthur it was a kind of miracle. A dab here, a dab there, a streak, colors blending sometimes, sharp-edged in other places. And from this chaos, a bird.

From time to time the model grew weary. Arthur jumped up from the grass and spoke to the geese, and soon another took the place of the first, as close a match as he could find. Jean-Jacques cursed under his breath. “They are not the same bird, you know.”

“But they’re alive,” said Arthur. “Look at the eyes.”

Jean-Jacques only grunted. For the bird did look alive on the paper. Arthur whispered about it to Alvin, but Alvin’s reply gave him no satisfaction. “How do you know he didn’t make the dead birds look just as alive in his paintings?”

At last the painting was done. Jean-Jacques busied himself with putting away his colors and brushes, until Arthur called out to him, rather angrily. “Look here, Mr. Audubon!”

Jean-Jacques looked up. The goose was still there, not posed anymore, but still on the ground, gazing intently at Arthur Stuart. “I’m finish with the goose, you can let it go.” He turned back to his work.

“No!” Arthur Stuart shouted.

“Arthur,” said Alvin softly.

“He’s got to watch,” said Arthur.

Sighing, Jean-Jacques looked up. “What am I watching?”

The moment Audubon’s eyes were on him, Arthur clapped his hands and the goose ran and clumsily staggered into the air. But as soon as its wings were pulling against the air, it changed into a beautiful creature, turning the powerful beats of its wings into soaring flight. The other geese also rose. And Jean-Jacques, his weariness slipping from him, watched them fly over the trees.

“What grace,” said Jean-Jacques. “No lady ever dances with so much beauty.”

At that Arthur charged at him, furious. “That’s right! Them living birds are prettier than any of your damned old paintings!”

Alvin caught Arthur by the shoulders, held him, smiled wanly at Jean-Jacques. “I’m sorry. I never seen him act so mad.”

“Every painting you ever made killed a bird,” said Arthur. “And I don’t care how pretty you paint, it ain’t worth stopping the life of any of them!”

Jean-Jacques was embarrassed. “No one say this to me before. Men shoot their guns all the time, birds die every day.”

“For meat,” said Arthur. “To eat them.”

“Does he believe this?” Jean-Jacques asked Alvin. “Do you think they are hungry and shoot the birds for food? Maybe they are stuffing it for trophy. Maybe they are shooting for fun, you angry boy.”

Arthur was unmollified. “So maybe they’re no better than you. But I’d rather cut off my hand than kill a bird just to make a picture of it.”