Читать книгу Sarah M. Peale America's First Woman Artist - Joan Ph.D. King - Страница 11

Thanks to Richard Johnson the sittings with Jackson were arranged. The General agreed to pose before breakfast for three mornings. Anna prepared her finest ivory; Charles readied a large canvas to accommodate a half-length portrait.

The General and his party climbed the stairs to the painting room as Sarah's anticipation peaked. Richard presented the General to Anna and Charles. Sarah watched from the sitting room. General Jackson was tall and thin; his thick graying hair brushed neatly, his smile tired, his grave face etched with sadness. Yet dressed as he was in his military uniform with sword and epaulettes, he moved with a loose easy grace and spoke in a steady Southern voice.

"Welcome to this humble place," Charles began. "I hope your stay in Washington City will prove fruitful."

Jackson grinned. 'I am resolved to beat these hellish machinations if it's my last accomplishment on this earth."

Sarah stood still, hardly breathing, as she watched Charles ease the General toward the model's chair. Richard Johnson was in a buoyant mood, his face rosy as he arranged chairs for Representatives Holmes and Poindexter near the model's chair.

When they were settled, Sarah brought in the tea, struggling to hold the tray steady when Jackson smiled at her.

She poured his tea unwaveringly. "And do you take sugar, General?"

"Why yes. Thank you kindly, Miss Sarah."

Sarah handed him the cup, wondering as she looked into his clear blue eyes how many men he'd killed in battle, duals and executions. His steady eyes met hers and set her trembling. She passed the plate of sweet biscuits, and watched his slender large-knuckled fingers as he plucked a biscuit off the plate and raised it to his mouth. Her eyes followed his hand until she caught herself staring. She turned quickly to Mr. Poindexter and poured his tea unhurriedly. "Sugar, sir?"

"If you please."

When the men were served, she sat on a footstool behind Anna, ready to pour more tea or gather teacups. Though she behaved as demurely as promised she regretted giving her word and longed for a stick of charcoal, mentally sketching the lines of Jackson's face.

Charles kept the conversation light. He did not allow glumness to settle on the portraits. Anna and Sarah had been warned for years to avoid sad and sullen looks at all costs. General Jackson, though most polite, could easily look downcast while discussing the debate in Congress. Poindexter, apparently caring nothing for serene expressions, insisted on discussing Jackson's reasoning in his conduct of the Seminole war.

Jackson's face became intent, determined, but not sullen. His shoulders had sloped somewhat before; but now they were straight. His eyes glinted and his mouth formed a self-confident smile. He was the mighty General discussing strategy with his officers. He was in command with a distant fire coloring his gaunt complexion and curling his mouth in a sardonic smile. He looked hungry for the battle.

Anna studied Jackson's every move, brushing adroitly, capturing the fleeting details. Sarah doubted if there was any question in her mind now about heroes and politicians. Jackson was a man among men, too complex to be defined. The jutting gold epaulettes on his shoulders symbolized his burdens as much as his glory, but there was glory. Sarah watched Anna paint the brow—that awesome bit of bone and skin hiding intrigues for the cause of the common man by an uncommon General—and Anna flooded that brow with warm light.

The hour passed in an instant, and the stately presence dissolved in promises to return the next morning before breakfast. The room seemed curiously empty when he was gone. Charles stood looking at his canvas, appearing enthralled. Anna's eyes glistened with dreamy speculation.

"You will both take your best portrait," Sarah said. "Oh, how I wish I could sketch him."

Charles turned his kind eyes toward her. "It wouldn't be proper." Sarah nodded and avoided looking at Anna.

The next morning when the General and his party arrived, the atmosphere brightened. Perhaps the familiarity of the routine encouraged relaxation. Whatever the reason, Jackson looked less gaunt. He sat taller, smiled more and actually seemed to enjoy himself.

"I had a feller paint me once, who afterwards turned out to paint pretty well, but that squiggling he made of me was so bad, I looked like a scarecrow somebody had pasted on a board fence. And my horse looked like a knock-kneed, skinny-legged, black camel. It was enough to make a man shy of artists forever. I only came here because Richard told me you were one man I could trust. And I believe I can."

"Thank you," Charles said. "I'll do my best. I want only to portray America's leaders as faithfully as possible. Still, I'm sure I could find room in the Museum for your remarkable black steed."

Jackson laughed again and continued his reminiscing. "That man must have drunk a tub of cider before he picked up his brush." He chuckled.

"If I were you," Charles offered, "I would have my portrait done often, otherwise the camel and scarecrow portrait will be the one you'll be remembered by."

"By the eternal! I would have met the man on the field of honor if Pd even suspected that could happen."

Although Charles detested the practice of dueling and would ordinarily have spoken out against it, this time he said nothing. One didn't anger a sitter, especially General Jackson. Charles changed the subject. "You look much rested today. I feel I'm painting a younger, more vigorous man this morning, someone girded for victory."

Jackson smiled. "Victory is always waiting for some one. I aim to be the right one in this skirmish." "And a few more, later, eh General?" Richard asked.

"Could be. I'd hate to let a long-winded rascal like Clay have the last word about how to put down an Indian rebellion." "Congress will be reasonable," Johnson said. "Mr. Poindexter will see to that. We'll scatter them quickly with you here to lead the battle."

Anna applied blue paint in fast sure strokes to the miniature image of his uniformed chest. It was as though she had picked up the rhythm of his heart, Sarah thought.

On the morning of the final sitting, the General had become a friend. His pipe sent up peaceful clouds of gray. His face had lost that strained weariness of the first day, and his great inner force was evident in his every movement. The energies spent in battle seemed to be regenerating, congealing, pushing him forward and filling his chest with the heady air of anticipation. Did he so relish confrontation for its own sake? Sarah wondered.

At the end of the sitting, General Jackson stood tall, smiled and admired Charles's portrait of President Monroe and that of Mamout Yarrow. "These faces speak well of you, Mr. Peale. You have even managed to show me as less than a scoundrel. I thank you for it. What a man's portrait says about him can be important, they tell me."

"The people want to see what their General looks like. And I have tried to give an honest report. I'm sure this canvas will bring many into the Museum for a glimpse."

General Jackson then turned to Anna with a mysterious look on his face, his eyes cast down. "And to you, Miss Peale, I'd like to say special thanks. You have given me the possession I treasure most in the world." He raised his eyes, revealing a softness not seen before.

Anna looked perplexed.

Jackson unbuttoned the jacket of his uniform and reached inside to loosen the buttons of his shirt. He pulled out a black cord worn around his neck. On the cord was a small ivory oval. He turned it around to show the likeness of a dark-haired woman.

Anna's face brightened. "Yes, I painted Mrs. Jackson four years ago."

Anna's hands fluttered as she stepped closer and touched the miniature.

"You have captured the look in her eyes I remember so well,"

Jackson said softly. "It brings me good luck." He paused. "And it brings me my Rachel."

Speechless, Anna squeezed Sarah's hand as General Jackson tucked the miniature gently back into its place next to his heart.