Читать книгу Sarah M. Peale America's First Woman Artist - Joan Ph.D. King - Страница 9

The stage lumbered to a standstill at Washington City's station. Sarah felt like a bird on a fence ready to fly. She gathered her tilings, smiled at her fellow passengers and allowed herself to be helped to the ground. Looking up, she saw Anna. Anna rushed forward with an air of purpose. She was dressed in the familiar gray cape, yet she looked different. Her head was held higher; her smile more a firm part of her. Her eyes glittered and her hair bounced. She was quite a beautiful woman. How was it that Sarah hadn't noticed before?

Sarah hugged Anna so exuberantly she didn't notice a man waiting a few paces away until Anna turned toward him. "Sarah, this is Colonel Richard Johnson."

"Welcome to Washington City," Richard said with an easy grin. Sarah recognized the name of the helpful congressman Anna had described in her letter. He had a military bearing that would be nice in a dancing partner, Sarah thought as he carried her bags as though they were filled with feathers. Sarah lagged behind Anna and Richard, straining to see what she could of the city. The copper dome of the capitol appeared in view, and Sarah stopped. It wasn't as impressive as many of the buildings in Philadelphia, but it was imposing, situated up on a hill. "I can't wait to go inside," Sarah said. "I want to see the government at work."

"Congress has recessed for Christmas," Richard said, "but you will have your chance. We couldn't send you back to Philadelphia without a taste of the city's oratory even though it's as often banal as it is inspiring." Richard's face was lit with good humor.

"Thank you for the warning," Sarah said, "but I care only about the representatives' faces. Inspiration isn't necessary. Even when Clay speaks I shall only be interested in seeing his eyes."

"Uncle Charles would have come," Anna began, "but he is painting the attorney general."

"I hope you're not too tired to come to the reception tonight," Richard said.

"How could I be tired?" Sarah asked. "What sort of reception?"

"In honor of the vice-president," Anna said.

They arrived at the house on Pennsylvania Avenue and Richard carried Sarah's bags upstairs. He promised to call later and drive them to the reception. Anna saw him to the door, lingering a few moments.

Charles must have heard the confusion in the hall. He called from the painting room. "Sally, ah, you're here."

Sarah rushed into the room and headed straight toward Charles, standing at his easel, but she stopped abruptly when she noticed the gentleman seated on the models' chair. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.

"I can't imagine a prettier interruption," the man said, rising.

"May I present my niece, Sarah. She will be spending the holidays here with us." Charles leaned fondly toward Sarah. "This is the Attorney General, Mr. William Wirt," Charles said, and Sarah curtsied. Then she asked if she could examine the portrait.

Uncle Charles turned the easel so she could view it. "Splendid," Sarah said, comparing the canvas to the sitter.

"And how does it strike you, William?" Charles asked.

The sitter rubbed his chin and smiled. "I didn't know I was such a well-turned-out fellow." Mr. Wirt's eyes revealed his pride as he put on his coat and said good-bye.

Sarah insisted on seeing and hearing about all the portraits. Charles arched his brows. "Monroe was difficult because of the interruptions, his complexion was sallow and he had several long lines in his face." Charles looked conspiratorially at Anna. "But we took a pair of handsome portraits, didn't we?"

"Being President would give thee long lines too," Hannah said. "It's a job for a master juggler."

Sarah examined the portrait with admiration. It would be worth any amount of work to be able to paint as well as her uncle.

Charles showed her Senator King's likeness. "I was struck by his natural pose, eyes gazing into the distance, his hand holding spectacles as though just taken from the face. It was a thoughtful look and he seems a thoughtful man."

"And Clay?" Sarah prompted, pausing at his portrait. "He looks like a fox."

Charles's face twisted in a wry smile. "He dominates in Congress, but he is a painter's delight."

"We have not been idle," Anna said. "Uncle Charles has startled onlookers with his facility."

A touch of remembered indignation flashed in Charles's eyes. "Some of these idlers think a man of seventy-seven should stay at home and work on his will. Bah, I intend to live another fifty years at least. My hand is steady, and with my spectacles, I see more than I need to see. My work speaks for itself."

"And none could be more eloquent," Anna said.

Charles shook his balding head. "We have already accomplished some of the tasks we set for ourselves; some alas, were doomed from the beginning."

"What sort of things was doomed?" Sarah asked. "It seems every thing is lovely here."

Charles drew in a deep breath. "The Museum is about as far as it ever was from attaining national status. But I have never given up a cherished dream because of one more set-back." He smiled. "However, any hope I had of patenting the windmill improvement is gone. After all my work on it I find that another man has already patented a similar improvement. Ah well, if I cannot give it to the world as I would have liked, at least I had the fun of developing it."

"You have done enough," Hannah said. "You will give your portraits to the world, and your sons will give theirs."

Charles nodded. "And don't forget my painting nieces."

"Your nieces will forget painting this evening," Hannah said.

Anna turned to Sarah, her face flushed. "Washington City is as lively as you can imagine."

"That's right," Hannah said, shaking her head. "It's no place for a Quaker lady of years and quiet habits, but there is much to enjoy as thee will see this evening."

Sarah curled her hair in the latest fashion and wore Margaretta's blue taffeta with the scooped neck, tucking lace in the bosom, since on Sarah the decolletage was shockingly low.

The reception hall reverberated with music and laughter as they arrived amidst the glitter of candlelit chandeliers, jewelry, and brass trimming on the military officers' uniforms. A bouquet of fragrant orange blossoms on a pedestal near the entrance drenched the air with its delicious aroma.

Colonel Johnson introduced them to many people with wonderful paintable faces, set off by fashionable gowns, elaborate hairstyles, and brilliantly-jeweled combs and earrings.

But even with the light-hearted atmosphere around the punchbowl, the gay lanterns strung across the room, the sweetness of the music, there were often sober words about General Andrew Jackson.

Sarah did not question anyone about Jackson's problems. She was too busy meeting people and dancing. The entire evening was one delightful whirl. And it wasn't until they were settled in the barouche and on their way home that Sarah thought of Jackson again. I am confused about General Jackson," she said "Some think he should be given high praises for what he did in Florida, while others want to censure him. Can anyone tell me what really happened?"

"Not tonight," Charles said. "Maybe the general will come to town and explain it himself."

"Oh surely he will," Anna said. "Clay's accusations are so serious; he could not leave them unanswered."

"Executions are sometimes justified," Charles said. "It's not a pretty patchwork. But later; we'll know more, later."

Sarah sensed her uncle's reluctance to enter into the issue. Perhaps tomorrow would be best, she thought. There were other things to think of now, pleasant things.

Sarah's excitement peaked when a messenger from the President delivered an invitation to the city's most important affair of the sea son, the Christmas party at the mansion. Charles read it with grand ‘gestures. Hannah sighed. "So many festivities. It's too much. One could wish to send regrets."

Charles's arms dropped to his side. "Of course, if you don't wish to attend, we shall send regrets, but let us think it over."

To be so close to such a celebration and to send regrets was unthinkable to Sarah, but what could she say? She was only included because she was a guest in her uncle's household. She stared at Hannah.

Hannah looked from one face to the other. "My dears, my dears," Hannah said. "I have spoken too quickly. Attending the festivities with you will give more pleasure by far than staying here."

Sarah threw her arms around Hannah, hugging her and whirling her around. Uncle Charles winked. And at once the problem became what to wear and how to wear it. Hannah set about brushing and laundering Charles's best. Sarah chose a daring dress of deep plum velvet. Anna wore a green gown with draped neckline, tightly-fitted bodice and full skirt.

Colonel Richard Johnson, looking more dashingly handsome than before, came to take them to the presidential mansion in his barouche. The party set out in high spirits.

When they arrived they were led to rooms furnished magnificently and lit by chandeliers holding hundreds of candles and reflecting a thousand lights in polished cut-glass festoons. The carpet followed the oval of the room and bore the coat of arms of the United States in the center. The guests glowed as brightly as the chandeliers as they moved with flair and elegance. Chirruping laughter in a muffled sea of voices surrounded them. Coffee, tea and a variety of cakes were offered as the lively music played.

"Another charming niece, Mr. Peale?" Senator King greeted. "And I understand from Mr. Wirt that this Peale lady also has talents in the arts. In the Peale tradition, eh?"

As they chatted with Senator King a handsome couple approached. Charles, recognizing them, extended his hand. "Stephen Decatur, hello."

The young man grasped Charles's hand. "You know my wife, Susan, don't you? Raphaelle painted her in Norfolk."

Charles knew the Decaturs in Philadelphia. Rembrandt had painted Stephen handsomely. "I understand you are Mr. Monroe's neighbor," Charles said.

"Ah, that's right. We're situated just up the hill a stone's throw." As they talked, President Monroe put his hand on Stephen's shoulder. "I would like to borrow your words to propose a toast to the country. May I?"

Stephen smiled. "My sentiments haven't changed since Algiers."

Monroe winked and clapped his hands "A toast," he said. "To our country." He bowed to Decatur and gestured for him to come for ward. Stephen held his glass high and finished the toast. "Our country! In her intercourse with foreign nations may she always be in the right—but our country, right or wrong."

"Our country," others echoed, glasses clinking. "Right or wrong."

Sarah looked around at the people, the surroundings, the elegance, the excitement. She wanted this—wanted it to last—wanted to be long here. All at once the music struck a lighter tone and a Virginia reel was announced. Sarah and Anna, a naval officer and a young Senator stepped to the lively sound. Sarah's head pounded. It was as though each person in this exalted room smiled on her. A handsome commodore in full black beard, dressed in his blue uniform decorated | with gold braid and buttons had the audacity to wink and say, "You are the freshest and loveliest woman in the room. Aye, in all of Washington City." The music pulsated; the hot moist air smelled of fine tobacco and rich perfume; the flavor of exotic punch lingered in Sarah's mouth.

She was breathless after the dance, after the words, so carelessly is spoken by the officer. Before she could think clearly, she was presented to the President and Mrs. Monroe. Sarah recognized the President's face from the handsome portrait in her uncle's painting room. He smiled. "I hope some day you will bring your palette to Washington City," the President said. Mrs. Monroe nodded. "It will be a much livelier place if you decide to do that," she said.

Flattered, Sarah smiled and accepted a second glass of punch. The heat of the room warmed her blushing cheeks. The roar of the voices surrounding them was punctuated with strains of rhythmic music; and through it all, she was feeling society and finding it irresistible. In that moment of blinding light and loud gaiety, she decided firmly that she would indeed become a portrait-painting Peale, one good enough to be accepted by every person in this room. She would learn her craft well. She would return to Washington City with her palette one day.