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.
Chapter 6
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
