Читать книгу Sarah M. Peale America's First Woman Artist - Joan Ph.D. King - Страница 7

In the subtle light of autumn's dawn, Sarah helped her father and Uncle Charles fit the baggage in the rig. Anna climbed into the seat next to Hannah while Sarah had to swear she would not lose Margaretta's white kid gloves and absolutely would not allow her royal blue taffeta to become water-spotted.

James took Anna's hand. "Do your best work," he said. "Show Washington City what Peale quality is, and our workshop will be more prosperous than ever." He squinted, his smile was strained.

"And you, Sally, study hard. Remember, I need a good steady hand to work beside me."

"We will do you proud, Papa," Anna said. Sarah hugged her father.

Charles drove swiftly down the road toward the harbor where they were to board the steamship heading for New Castle. When they arrived at the dock, Rubens was there waiting to pick up the rig and to add one more package for Rembrandt's museum.

Rubens and Charles took charge of unpacking the rig and having their baggage stored on board. Standing idly by, Sarah looked up then and saw Benjamin Blakely rushing toward them. He was something to watch, his long legs gliding gracefully over the cobbles, his rusty colored hair clapping at his forehead, his blue eyes fixed straight ahead. Sarah smiled.

"Hello, Sarah. Morning, everyone." He fumbled with a package, pushed it toward Sarah and smiled. "Something for your trip."

His face, though not quite handsome, was rosy from his run, giving him a look of vitality. Sarah took the box. "Thank you, Ben. What is it?"

"Nothing much. Sweets and cakes. I was hoping...well, I'll be seeing you when you get back, won't I?"

"Sweets and cakes," Sarah exclaimed as she looked at Ben, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Isn't that nice, Anna?"

"Very." "Thank you, Ben." "Hope you enjoy it," he said. "I hope…well, that you have a nice journey."

Sarah wondered why he looked at her in that worried way. She was pleased that he remembered this was the day she was leaving; pleased, he cared enough to bring cakes and sweets. She wanted to touch his hand, but that wouldn't do so she smiled at him before she went on board, turned as she stepped on deck and smiled again.

The morning was calm but foggy. Haze obscured people standing on the quay. Birds squawked overhead, but were hidden in the fog. Sarah and Anna stood at the rail and waved. Sarah could barely make out Ben's pale silhouette as he leaned on a post, probably looking up at the deck with his curious smile.

Fog horns blew and the boat moved. Sarah watched Ben's shadowy form until it disappeared completely into the fog. Anna pulled her below deck to the seat beside Uncle Charles and Aunt Hannah. She opened the box Ben had brought, thinking that his face had that look Jane Hayes's men sometimes had. Sarah smiled, took a sweet, tasted it and savored it.

As soon as they had settled in, Charles excused himself to go off to check the baggage, which he thought ought to be tied together in some way so that nothing would be forgotten. Charles was too restless to sit idle for very long. His energy prodded him and when he applied it to a problem, his inventive mind would produce some solution. His younger children, Betsy, Titian, and Franklin, thought he was much too inventive. Sarah didn't agree. Why should anyone be embarrassed by experiments that didn't work, when so much of what he did worked wonderfully?

Sarah wished she could be like her uncle. She didn't want to stay in Philadelphia her whole life, painting backgrounds or ruffles and lace on her father's commissions. She wanted to travel like this and see America. It was such an achingly beautiful country. Her soul had hungered for the changing landscape, rushing rivers and vast blue sky. She suddenly felt how confining the city streets and her father's workshop had been.

Shortly after noon a banquet was served in the ship's dining room. Sarah filled her plate with smoked oysters, country ham, vegetables swimming in a lovely cheese sauce, and fragrant mincemeat pie. Wine was offered, but Charles refused. "Water is the best for health. There is no danger of overdoing when drinking water."

The afternoon and evening passed uneventfully. Sarah slipped off her shoes as they had begun to feel uncomfortable, put a pillow behind her head and dozed. In a few minutes she was wide awake and restless. She decided to put on her shoes and freshen up so she would be presentable when they docked in Baltimore. When she pushed her foot down into the shoe, sharp pain shot upward. Her right foot had swollen so much it was impossible to put on her shoe. She hobbled about, aghast at the thickness of her ankle.

"Gout," Charles announced. He ordered her to drink quantities of weak tea and to massage her foot with a towel dipped in a foul-smelling solution. 'You ate greedily," Charles said. "You had better read my pamphlet on preserving health. You must learn restraint and moderation. If you don't, your gout will flare up again and again. Look at how Raphaelle suffers."

Sarah bit her lip, and rushed to her cousin's defense. "Raphaelle told me once he tried very hard to practice moderation, but couldn't prevent himself from drinking liquor, even when he knew it would end badly."

Charles looked nakedly into Sarah's eyes. "Why can't he prevent himself from it? He had so much promise, such a tender boy, always trying to please me. But in this, he doesn't try hard enough." His jaw clenched. "You had better discipline yourself, young lady." His voice was as harsh as she had ever heard it.

"Thank you, Uncle. I surely will. One thing I don't care much for is gout." She wiggled her toes and Charles laughed.

The steamship arrived at the harbor in Baltimore in the dark hours of morning. Charles thought it best to stay on board until the sun rose. “It won't be long," Anna said. And for once Sarah had no desire to argue. The swelling in her foot was going down, but it was still so painful she would not have been able to keep up with the rest of them.

The talk was all of Rembrandt now and of his museum. Uncle Charles could not hide his eagerness to see it. "I begged him not to build the museum in Baltimore," Charles said. "But if my wishes were ignored, I cannot complain. Rembrandt has spared nothing to make it the city's pride. Maybe he was right. How could something as worthy as a museum hurt Angelica?"

Hannah's face filled with concern when Charles mentioned Angelica’s name. Hannah was a quiet woman, but alert to the struggles going on in her husband's mind.

“Baltimore is a big enough place for both Peales and Robinsons," Anna said."Not necessarily," Charles said. "Lord knows I've tried every kindness I can think of, but Alexander's still set against us. I'm afraid Rembrandt's presence in Baltimore can only harden him."

"Be that as it may," Hannah said. "You will enjoy seeing Angelica and her children. A good portrait of them will give happiness for a long time after." Hannah's simple Quaker goodness seemed to calm Charles.

At daybreak Charles hired a barrow man to carry their baggage to Rembrandt's house. "You will be best waiting right here. After I've awakened the family, I'll come back with Rembrandt and his carriage."

Shortly after nine o'clock Charles returned with Rembrandt. Sarah was struck with how much Rembrandt resembled his father—in the way they walked, the way they held their heads. Rembrandt, though younger, moved slowly and exuded an almost feminine air of gentility. After hearty embraces, they all climbed into the carriage and headed to Rembrandt's museum.

The carriage drew to a halt on Holliday Street. Sarah gazed at the tall brick museum building with many windows facing the street, and four stately pillars flanking the front door. A flag hung from a long pole over the entrance.

"To think," Anna said, "this is the only building in America designed to be a museum. It has dignity, doesn't it?"

"Yes." Charles agreed. "The State House has served well as a muse um in Philadelphia, but this is better. I only hope the high cost can be offset with profit."

"Let's hurry in?" Sarah said. "I can't wait to see inside."

"Impatient Sarah," Charles said, shaking his head. "Come, get down, but before we go in I do want to look at the new gas streetlamp."

Sarah sighed. She didn't mean to be impatient, but the streetlamp could be seen any time, preferably when it was lighting the street. She understood, though, how Uncle Charles would be interested in the scientific aspect of a streetlamp that used gas. She held back her urge to dash up the stairs and poke around inside to see where Rembrandt had put things. He had written about the studio on the third floor. She was most anxious to see that, for surely that was where she would be studying.

Sarah and Anna's footsteps made a muffled hollow sound on the smooth floor as they followed Charles, Rembrandt and Hannah. Rembrandt talked about the gas works. "Rubens's experiments in Philadelphia have been criticized as dangerous," Charles said. Rembrandt shrugged. He was so excited about the possibilities of illuminating with gas that he was ready to start a gas company in Baltimore. It sounded impractical to Sarah, but what did she know?

Sarah and Anna lagged behind as they surveyed the first large room. Rembrandt showed them the six-octave piano in the lecture hall.

"This is splendid," Charles said; his voice full of pride in Rembrandt's accomplishments.

"I wonder why Uncle Charles is so different with Raphaelle," Sarah whispered.

"You know exactly why," Anna reproached. "Uncle Charles has seen what Raphaelle's drinking has made of his life."

"It seems to me," Sarah said, "that most men drink too much. And at least Raphaelle laughs and makes jokes."

Anna frowned. "It's not something we should discuss. Uncle Charles feels responsible for everyone. That's why he brought us along. He does what he can for Raphaelle, too."

"I just wish Raphaelle had a museum of his own or something nice."

Anna swung sharply around to face Sarah with a warning glare. "Now, don't talk like that, Sarah. Think about learning all you can from Rembrandt. If you don't work hard, Uncle will be sorry he brought you. You'll be invited to dozens of places, but you're here to learn something. You paint better than I did at your age. If you apply yourself, you will be able to carry on father's work."

Anna's eyes beseeched Sarah to understand. It was as though this whole sojourn was more serious than Sarah had thought. "Do you think Papa's eyes are worsening so much...?"

Anna nodded. "And if I am the only one prepared to supply any income from painting, we will feel the pinch badly."

"Don't worry, Anna. I'll work hard. You can depend on me." It was a strange thought for Sarah. She had never expected that anyone would ever depend on her. She was the youngest, the one who was doted on, and spoiled. But now she would have to share some of the responsibilities. She held her chin up. Yes, you can depend on me."

"Come along, you two," Rembrandt said. "I must show you the skylight gallery and the third-floor studio room."

Sarah sprang to attention, hurrying and pulling Anna along. "The studio sounds like a palace. Papa says it's more than twice as big as his workshop and twice as high. Are you going to paint gigantic pictures like they do in Paris?"

"Could be," Rembrandt said laughing. "And I hope to start an art school some day in the future." He paused at an arched doorway. "But first, here we are in the main gallery."

Sarah stood still. Light radiated into the room, spreading natural warmth but diffusing the brightness so there was no glare. On the white walls hung rows of portraits of Revolutionary War heroes, along with Rembrandt's Roman Daughter, Napoleon and his copy of Benjamin West's Death of Virginia. Sarah was intrigued most of all by Rembrandt's portrait of Jefferson. The face was beautiful in a way that imputed greatness, the eyes shone with sincerity and the fur collar around the neck was so perfect, Sarah could almost feel the soft hair under her fingertips. There was so much Rembrandt could teach—if only she were clever enough to learn.

Rembrandt pointed to the new lamps suspended from the cupola. "This is the first time paintings have ever been exhibited by artificial light in such a way. Wait till you see it in the evening. We have illuminations on Tuesday and Thursday nights."

Charles's eyes flickered with pride as he looked around. Going upstairs to the studio room, he put his arm around Sarah and spoke to Rembrandt. "Our little Sally has shown a good deal of promise. If she can learn some of the techniques you brought back from Europe, she will become a mainstay in James's studio."

Rembrandt's angular features softened with affection as he looked at her through the small globes of his spectacles.

That evening an air of celebration accompanied the dinner of wild turkey. Rembrandt's wife Eleanor was known for her superb dinners, and this was no exception. With the maid assisting, the younger children ate in the kitchen, so there would be plenty of room at the main table. After all the family news had been exchanged, the conversation turned to Charles's stay in Washington City.

"I hope to paint the President," Charles said. "I shall certainly invite Mr. Calhoun to sit and John Quincy Adams, Henry Clay and some of the worthiest senators."

Anticipation sparkled in Rembrandt's eyes. "And Pa, there is talk that General Jackson may be called to Washington City."

Charles brightened. "Old Hickory's face is one I would dearly love to carry home. Though he's a man of blood and fire, I admire him."

"Yes," Anna said. "I was lucky enough to do a miniature of his wife while the General was busy. I remember how she spoke of him and how much she hoped that he would soon settle down to a quieter life in the Tennessee countryside."

Rembrandt shook his head. "He has not had much time for that. And his actions in the Seminole War are being debated in the Congress. Ah yes," Rembrandt sighed. "His portrait would enhance my collection here, might even bring up attendance."

Sarah looked from Rembrandt to Charles, expecting a question about how the museum was doing with the public, but Charles seemed preoccupied with his pie.

The next day they called on the Robinsons. Angelica, looking attractive and well-groomed, greeted Anna, Sarah and Hannah warmly. But when she came to her father, she threw her arms around him with such dammed-up affection she was transformed, looking years younger and childishly delighted. She sat close to Charles while her daughters Alverda and Charlotte played the piano. Alexander did not smile. His speech was courteous, but he made no pretense of affection, and the strain between him and Charles crack- led when Charles mentioned Rembrandt's museum, and Alexander grunted, turned his back and blew his nose.

Angelica ignored Alexander and asked to hear more. Alexander listened a few moments, but finally rapped his pipe sharply and repeatedly on the fireplace grate. Satisfied that his pipe was emptied of old tobacco, he intently filled it with a fresh mixture from the humidor on the mantel as he spoke. "Rembrandt's folly was in thinking that his amateurish exhibitionism could interest any but the lowest classes." He sneered, tamping down the tobacco. "But apparently Rembrandt will not learn until this museum has defeated him." Sarah's astonished gaze darted from Alexander's smug face to Angelica's helpless expression as she looked sadly at her father.

"And I can't imagine," Alexander continued, "why James wants to fill his daughters' pretty heads with this reprehensible commercial- ism." He looked over Anna's head at Charles.

"I see no reason why women cannot paint as well as any man," Charles answered, his face and neck turning a deep pink. "Anna's skill with miniatures is as fine as any man's and Sarah shows great promise."

"Promise," he said with a snort. "But can she bake a blackberry pie and handle servants?" Sarah rose to her feet. "I care nothing for blackberry pies, and we do not have slaves." She heard the ringing insolence of her tone in the silence that followed her words and saw shock on Angelica's face, as well as sharp disapproval on Alexander's. "I shall paint portraits for sale to the public," Sarah went on. "And I don't think that is in the least reprehensible."

"You are to be pitied, of course," Alexander said. "Now I hope you will excuse me, for I have taken all the time from business that I can afford to waste."