Lucy, M’amie

The spring of 1808 was late and cold and rainy. In spite of the weather the Audubons started their journey the day following their wedding with lively optimism. A great amount of food had been prepared for the journey, which had to be stowed somewhere in saddlebags and baskets. Friends and neighbors and relatives ran about bidding farewell to Lucy, weeping over her, admonishing her about this and that. Was she dressed warmly enough? It was said the coaches were drafty and cold. Didn’t she think they should wait another day or two until the weather settled? No they couldn’t wait. Did she have everything? Hadn’t she forgotten something? Lucy could not answer all the questions and if her family thought it strange that her farewells were dry-eyed they did not know their Lucy. This was the day she had longed for since that first morning when La Foret had walked into the little sitting room and she realized that she loved him. Now he was hers and she was his. Why should tears be shed? Many brides were doing this same thing, leaving the old home for a new, following their men into a strange wilderness country. Lucy remembered her mother’s grief at leaving England, an emotion she had not been able to understand. The family was together, wasn’t it? What else mattered? England or America, Pennsylvania or Kentucky—it made no difference as long as her beloved was with her. And her reasoning was as stable as her father’s. The time for making the decision of going with La Foret into the wilderness, of becoming pioneers in a new location, was passed. Now there could be no turning back. If Lucy felt any qualms about the future she spoke of them to no one. And because there had been many objections by her family and friends to her marrying La Foret, she knew there would be no one to censure but herself if failure came to their marriage. She had had several years to observe what kind of a man this was she was marrying. She had seen exhibitions of his sudden, intense anger, usually brought on by his own stupidity or that in others. She had seen him once or twice almost blind with rage. But Lucy believed his angers were righteous and sympathized with him in them. Lucy had comforted La Foret when he was in despair, as the time when he realized that the lead mine was a failure and he must sell it to the scoundrel, Dacosta. She was unable to descend with La Foret into the depths of melancholia that sometimes seized him, even as she could not ascent to the heights of optimism he experienced, for Lucy’s emotions moved on an even keel. And she knew La Foret was extravagant. But was that not a fault of his taste and was not taste an inherent quality? Moreover, he had been spoiled by his chere maman, he readily admitted this, and if he liked fine horses and expensive clothes, he liked them. Only by careful directing, by suggestion, by love could his extravagance be curbed. So Lucy believed. Her family and friends told Lucy that La Foret was a vain, idle ne’er-do-well. Because he did not follow a definite occupation, as her male relatives did, they considered him lazy and indolent. But Lucy had noted how La Foret had patiently persisted at a labor, which he considered necessary to the end he was trying to accomplish. She had watched him draw and paint over and over again, a claw or a feather of a bird in order to reach the perfection he craved. She had known him to sit for hours in uncomfortable surroundings in the forest, enduring heat or cold, rain or snow, insects and brambles, that he might observe the actions of a bird he wanted to portray. Was there no merit in endeavor of this kind? Could no good come from a vocation different from those followed by the men she had always known? Lucy was willing to wait and see. The characteristic, which disturbed Lucy most in her eccentric lover, was his tendency to showoff. If only he would not make a monkey of himself, just to amuse anyone looking on. No one could be more dignified when he wanted to be than La Foret but then suddenly he would behave with abandon and absurdity, throwing his long arms about, gesticulating with his expressive hands, dancing a jig or two regardless of where he might be. But he did this with such flair, such good humor, that even conservative Lucy could not find too much fault with his silly buffoonery. And there was his restlessness. La Foret had described his father, the French Captain, to Lucy. She could see that they had many qualities in common: “a versatile mind and mercurial temper, as well as an inherent capacity for taking pains” and this craving for change, for another scene, for a different activity, which seemed unrelated to other aspects of his nature. Perhaps this restlessness would disappear after marriage. Perhaps there would be no more sudden disappearances with no word of warning, one moment with her, the next far away—sometimes a physical fact, when he galloped off into the forest after a bird; often a spiritual absence, when he was near in body but remote in thought. These were the most poignant withdrawals for Lucy. In her own disciplined mind Lucy considered all these attributes and balanced against them the virtues of La Foret. She could have enumerated many to his critics had she cared to do so. La Foret’s innate honesty, his integrity, his loyalty to his friends and sympathy for the unfortunate, his generosity, his love for children, the proof of which genuineness was the fact that children loved him inordinately in return; his forthrightness, his great ability to draw and paint birds beautifully. Lucy believed him to be a genius. Then there was his great love for her, m'amie, my Lucy, and her love for him. Lucy Bakewell knew what she was doing when she married John James Audubon. She, and only she, knew the whole man. She would accept his faults (after all, who was perfect), she would believe in him and in his destiny. She would love him to the end. * * * Finally the last basket was tied in place, the last farewells spoken, and a jubilant La Foret lifted his bride into her saddle. By horseback to Norristown, coach to Philadelphia and stagecoach to Pittsburgh. From there a boat, some kind of a boat, down the Ohio to Louisville. A long, difficult journey. Those who waited on the wide veranda of the Fatland Ford mansion wept as they watched to see the horses and riders disappear down the lane.