Читать книгу Sarah M. Peale America's First Woman Artist - Joan Ph.D. King - Страница 10

Seven weeks had passed since Sarah left Washington and returned to Baltimore, ardent for more instruction. After that visit her will to learn surged to great heights. She intended to become accomplished enough to take her place beside Anna and Charles in the capital. She meant to make a great deal of progress. She must be the best she could possibly be. To gain skill as she knew she must, she formed the habit of getting up earlier and staying at her easel longer. The portraits of Monroe, Clay, and Calhoun remained ever vivid in her mind. Superimposed over the portraits was the bright gala affair at the presidential mansion where she floated through the elegant gathering amid bowing men and smiling women. The vision haunted and kept her striving to achieve more and yet more.

Rembrandt advised her to let up. "There's no need to work on three paintings at a time. You're making excellent progress and I don't want you making yourself sick."

Sarah only laughed. She had all the stamina she needed. She never felt more alive or more incapable of letting up. Even at night when she was supposed to be asleep, she would sketch her mirror image in candlelight placed at various angles and distances. Sometimes she imagined she was Anna painting a Monroe who would not sit still.

Sleep was almost unnecessary and when she did slumber, she dreamed of paintings, poses, and problems of perspective. Every morning at her easel she knew she would make some progress; how much depended on how much she did. It was impossible to do less, as Rembrandt suggested when she knew she needed to do more.

Rosa handed her a letter from Ben one day. Sarah looked at it with embarrassment. She shouldn't have written him about such a very personal matter. The question she had asked him had become irrelevant. She no longer cared what anyone thought of her pursuits. She knew what she must do. Yet later in her room she tore open Ben's letter with an impatient sigh.

Dear Sarah,

You have had the good fortune to grow up in a most enlightened family. In the past few weeks I have come to know your cousins Rubens and Titian, and have visited the museum often, so have come to regard your cousins as men with deep knowledge and enthusiasms. Indeed, that seems to be the mark of the Peales. I read your Uncle Charles's writing on maintaining health and find the logic of his arguments almost as beautiful as the wax figures he modeled for the Museum. You are a Peale, Sarah, and since you have set out to excel in painting, I have no doubt that you will. But you must leave time for enjoyment. When you return, I hope you will allow me to share an enjoyable hour with you now and then, an evening of music, a buggy ride in the country or whatever you fancy most. Until then, by all means work hard if you like, but do not exhaust yourself. It will gain you nothing.

Your affectionate friend,

Ben

She was agitated and dissatisfied with his response. He was just like the others. He didn't take her seriously either. She shrugged. A buggy ride in the country? But her whole idea of enjoyment had changed. Washington had shown her what pleasure was. How she longed to be there with Anna and Uncle Charles and Aunt Hannah. She shoved Ben's letter back into its envelope and tossed it on her writing table.

In a few weeks they would all be going home again. Washington would fade as would Rembrandt's third floor studio. She would be back to draperies and lace in her father's workshop. The thought of it made her muscles taut. She wanted so much more before she went back. Envy for Anna's good luck welled up again. Why couldn't she be there where she wanted so badly to be? What about Jackson; would he come to Washington? Would he sit? She couldn't abide being so far away and not knowing.

That night she dreamed of being in Washington. The dream was so real she was disoriented when she woke to find herself still in Baltimore. That was the day the DeLaneys came to the museum to call on Rembrandt. The DeLaneys were friends from Philadelphia on their way to Washington.

It was perhaps natural for Sarah to wish she were going with them, but she was ashamed of how boldly she had acted. Or was she really?

She had wheedled them all, first the Delaneys, saying how she envied them their visit to Washington, what a wonderful place it was, and how she ached to return there, how she missed her dear sister Anna. She became a pleading waif, eyes wide, and lo—Mrs. Delany said she wished Sarah could accompany them. Sarah then turned to Rembrandt, praising him, saying she needed to double her efforts at painting well—triple them, that a few days away from the frenzy of her studies—even to go to Anna's side—was unthinkable, though Washington and her dear Anna were never out of her thoughts. It wasn't hard to twist Rembrandt into urging her to go. "You've been working too hard. A rest will do you good." But now that the journey was almost over, a quiver of nervousness overtook her. What would Uncle Charles say about her coming back to Washington?

"I can't believe my eyes," Hannah said, opening the door.

Sarah stepped quickly inside. "I had to come." Sarah kissed Hannah's cheek and braced herself, still not knowing how to explain her presence to her uncle.

Anna and Charles were in the painting room painting the Vice President, Daniel Tompkins. "Let's not disturb them while they're working," Sarah whispered. Hannah led Sarah to the sitting room and made her a cup of tea. Sarah told Hannah the truth. "I just wanted to come so badly I, well I...came."

Hannah nodded.

"Besides, I never did hear any speeches at the capitol because of the Christmas recess."

Hannah cut her a piece of raisin cake. 'You must be hungry."

Sarah ate the cake although she hardly tasted it. Each bite felt like stone going down her throat as she thought of how livid her father would be when he heard what she had done.

Presently, the sound of footsteps and voices from the hall reached them. Anna and Charles said good-bye to Mr. Tompkins. A few minutes later Charles was at the kitchen doorway. Anna stood behind him, her eyes wide. "And what's the meaning of this visit?" Charles asked.

Sarah swallowed.

"The dear girl was homesick for us," Hannah said.

"Sarah!" Anna scolded. Charles looked shocked and displeased.

Sarah's eyes filled with scalding tears which she blinked back. "I wanted to be here when General Jackson came."

Charles threw back his head and laughed. "He may not come for weeks or months or ever. I've kept hope alive, but I can't stay much longer. The foul weather here doesn't agree with me. I've had one cold after another though I live prudently. Ah, I am anxious to be home."

"Take this," Hannah said, serving him a pungent-smelling tea.

"I'll help Sarah get settled," Anna said.

When they were in Anna's bedroom, Anna lectured her sternly, but it had no effect. Sarah was too relieved that her uncle had not stormed at her. She was weary and sat down, hanging her head until Anna finished. Anna paused to take a breath and Sarah looked up teasingly. "Is General Jackson a hero or a villain?"

Anna shrugged. "It depends on who you talk to or which paper you read."

"I know. But here in the capital, people surely know. What do you hear?"

Anna rubbed the back of her neck and frowned. "Spain is demanding restitution of Pensacola and the captured forts and punishment of General Jackson. But the biggest issue with Clay and Crawford in the Senate seems to be Jackson's execution of Arbuthnot and Ambrister. Jackson said they were guilty of treason for giving the Indians guns and leading them to battle. Clay and Crawford say that their execution was a vengeful act, that Jackson overreached his authority. Jackson's people say he received authority for everything he did from the President. Monroe admits he told Jackson to keep peace in the region, but says he didn't have the power to authorize war; only Congress possessed that. It's all more complicated than that, but the details confuse me."

"And what about Richard Johnson? I'll wager they aren't confusing him. Or haven't you seen him lately?"

"Richard is just as helpful as ever—and you can stop looking at me like that. It's Uncle Charles he admires so much."

"Anna, I'm not blind. When I was here before I saw exactly what he admired. And he's quite a charming man. You should be flattered."

"Well, I have enjoyed his company. And so has Uncle Charles. And incidentally, he is General Jackson's greatest defender. He absolutely won't tolerate a breath of slander about the greatest General this country has ever known. Richard calls Jackson's opponents a pack of political cutthroats."

"Does Richard think Jackson will come?"

Anna nodded. "He hopes so."

"Oh, I do, too," Sarah said. "And I hope he will sit."

Anna put her hands on her hips and glared at Sarah. "Well, if he does, don't expect to be invited to paint him. I think Uncle Charles has extended himself far enough by including me. These men are granting a courtesy, and they want to be guaranteed a professional result. Now, I know that sounds hard; and I'm not saying that I am deserving of the honor. I just want you to understand that you haven't earned the privilege yet. Oh, some day, Sarah, you will have your chance. But promise me you won't embarrass Uncle Charles with your begging please."

Sarah pressed her lips together and studied Anna's face. Anna's eyes held hers. "I promise," she said reluctantly.

"Good."

"But Uncle Charles let Papa, Raphaelle and Rembrandt come with him to paint George Washington. And Rembrandt was only seven- teen. Remember that?"

"Yes, I thought you would bring that up. But that was altogether different. Uncle Charles served under Washington in the war. So did Papa. Uncle Charles had painted Washington several times before. They were friends. That makes the whole situation different. And while we're remembering. Remember that portrait Rembrandt did; could you do half as well?"

Sarah grimaced. "Oh Anna! You know I couldn't—not yet."

That afternoon the wind rattled the windowpanes in the painting room. Sarah shivered, though the fire burned high, popping and crackling in the fireplace. Anna and Charles showed Sarah their latest portraits. As she admired them, Colonel Johnson came for tea.

He greeted them with a mischievous wink. Hannah served raisin cake and mulled current wine. Richard hesitated when refreshments were offered. "I can't stay long," he said. "I must get back." But as he looked at the cake, his hurry subsided. "A small piece, then."

"What is your rush?" Charles asked.

"The debate in the Committee on Military Affairs. Clay is unrelenting in his attacks on Jackson, but so far it's all rhetoric—no substance."

"I sympathize with Jackson," Charles said, "but surely the President faces a difficult problem, too. How will he ever satisfy Spain, the Congress, and the country in addition to General Jackson? What an impossible task. But I understand Adams is preparing the administration's defense of Jackson."

Richard shuffled his feet and gulped his wine. "Isn't that ironic? John Quincy Adams, a Federalist?"

Sarah pushed forward in her chair. "Won't Jackson come to argue his own cause in Congress? You're close to him. What do you think?"

Richard's mouth formed a one-sided smile. "General Jackson is not afraid of a fight, especially when his military reputation is at stake. But I hear he is sick and demoralized. He risked his life for the country over and over, and his reward is a debate in Congress over whether he should be censured. But if I know my Jackson, he will drag himself out of his sickbed and face the enemy in any arena, even in the House." After speaking, Richard stared into the flames while he sipped his wine. Presently, he rose. Anna got up, too. Richard caught her gaze and smiled. "Anna, don't look so disturbed. Politics has its heavy edge. It can't be all parties and handshaking."

"Politics," Charles said, "like a beautiful landscape, is best viewed from a distance. Under the microscope, one finds a great many hoary creatures."

"True," Richard said with a wry smile. "Well, I must get to the House to rally more support before Clay and Crawford do any more damage. They'd love to dash Jackson's presidential hopes, but I think they underestimate his strength and popularity."

When Richard was gone, the room grew quiet. Anna broke the silence. "Do you think we will remain in Washington long enough for me to take a commission from a lady Richard has recommended me to?" Sarah suspected Anna hated to miss a chance of painting Jackson.

Charles turned, put down his quill."Colonel Johnson thinks Jack son will come, but we can't wait much longer. Still, I do have one more good American to paint before I leave."

"Oh, who?" Anna asked.

"He's an exceptional man, a most exceptional man."

"Tell us." Sarah said.

"Mamout Yarrow. Do you remember him, Anna?"

Anna frowned. "Could you mean that Mohammedan ex-slave of Georgetown, the one who is supposed to be a hundred and thirty-five years old?"

"A hundred and thirty," Charles corrected. "Though some say he's nearer a hundred. Still that's enough for me. He earned and lost a small fortune several times, and he is still active and healthy and full of fan. Since I have always said the natural lifespan should be a hundred fifty to two hundred years, I thought it would be interesting to see if he practices some of my own rules for healthy living."

"And does he?" Anna asked.

"His rules are simple but wise," Charles said with a smile. "No good to eat hog and to drink whiskey is very bad."

Mr. Yarrow promised to be an interesting subject. And if it extended their stay a few more days, maybe General Jackson would come.

That evening Sarah and Anna put on their heavy wraps and went out for a stroll. The wind had died down and the damp earth smell in the air hinted of spring. "May I paint you when we go back?" Sarah asked. "I want to show you how much I've improved."

"If you wish," Anna said.

When they climbed up the stairs to the rooms, they found that Charles and Hannah had gone out, too. Anna poked at the fire and took out her sewing while Sarah searched for a discarded canvas that her uncle wouldn't miss. Sarah was engrossed in preparations for starting the painting. She hadn't noticed how Anna gazed around the painting room.

"Have you ever wondered what made any of these men illustrious?" Anna said.

Sarah looked up as Anna studied Charles's dozen portraits hanging around the room, the President, Mr. Calhoun, John Quincy Adams, and the others.

Sarah laughed, ignoring Anna's serious mood. 'They're all politicians."

"Yes. But back in the Museum, we looked on the men in the portraits as heroes. Washington, Jefferson, Lafayette and all the gallant officers. It seemed so simple once. A hero was a man who did unselfish acts for the good of someone or something."

"So what has changed?" Sarah asked, not looking up from her drawing. "I don't know. But in Washington, it seems an act can be colored one way or another and what counts is power, the number of men willing to give support."

"It seems to me," Sarah said, "that heroes start out being men, and that would complicate the matter."

Anna smiled. "That's it. I was impressed with Mr. Clay. His talk was witty and logical. He seemed amiable and patriotic, determined to protect the Union. What could be better than that? And yet he attacked Jackson. Which one was the hero?" She shook her head and studied the face of President Monroe. "There was no guile in Monroe's face. And yet they say he gave Jackson the go-ahead to take care of the Indian situation as he saw fit, and when he did, the President backed away from him."

"Public debate brings everything out, facts, politics and passions. It's our American way, isn't it?"

"Maybe so," Anna said with a tired sigh, "but I don't like politics, everyone grasping for power. Corruption and consciences all mixed up. I don't know what to make of it all. It will be nice to get back to the peace of Papa's workshop."

Sarah frowned her disagreement. She hoped to stay longer, but now she was concerned mostly with painting a very good portrait. She wanted to show Uncle Charles she hadn't been wasting her time.

Charles and Hannah returned while Sarah was finishing her drawing. If they acted happy or excited, Sarah didn't notice. She was concentrating on the recessed line from the base of Anna's nose to the middle of her upper lip. In this light and with Anna's expression, it was a very subtle line.

Charles went straight to the fire while Hannah put their things away. Then Hannah came into the room and stood next to Charles. He put his arm around her waist and stood on his tiptoes, rocked back on the balls of his feet and smiled. Anna looked up, her expression puzzled. "Did you enjoy your outing?"

"Aye, that we did," Charles answered. He rocked on his toes again. "I think we are going to get our wish," Charles said.

Anna gasped. Charles and Hannah seemed ready to burst. "We have been walking," Hannah said. "There is much talk."

"Of Jackson?" Sarah asked excitedly. "Is he coming? Is that what you heard?"

"Not quite," Charles said. "We heard that a tall gaunt figure on horseback muffled in a greatcoat crossed the Long Bridge and ended his journey at Strater's Hotel." Charles winked and strutted to his easel. "General Jackson is here."