back."
"We'll do no such thing," Anna said. "We'll mind our manners no matter what. Besides, soon enough you'll be busy with your lessons and I'll be off for Washington City."
"I shall like being in Baltimore with cousin Rembrandt," Sarah said, "but my heart will be with you in Washington City."
"You'll be very lucky to study with Rembrandt. He's one of the best artists in the country now."
"Not better than Uncle Charles. Not better than Papa. And what about Stuart and Trumbull?"
"What Rembrandt can teach you, none of the others could, not even Father. And Rembrandt has a fervor you can't resist. I improved tremendously while I was painting in his studio. And I painted a few important ladies."
Sarah yawned and wondered if she should pack her party gown and slippers. Then she thought of Benjamin Blakely, imagining his face, his blue eyes looking serious one minute, dancing with fun the next. After she saw him twice at the Tuesday singing programs, he had asked if he could see her again. She said yes and tossed it off as though she didn't really care. But she liked him and hoped she would see him again. They would be gone so long though; he might forget all about her by the time she got back.
Chapter 2
The evening was stormy. Pain forced Raphaelle to use crutches to get to the Museum. "If you earned enough money," his wife Patty muttered before he left the house, "you could afford a horse and buggy, and you wouldn't have to go trudging out in all weathers." He nodded and pulled his cap down over his ears.
Turning the corner of Chestnut Street, the wind and rain assailed him. He wanted to stop at the tavern for a whiskey to ease the pain in his gouty legs. He wanted a glass of whiskey the way a man wants to scratch where he itches. His mouth salivated, not for the taste, but because whiskey could bring oblivion, a veil to throw over the plain truth about him, drown his past failures, bring pleasure to the present, and obliterate the future altogether. Too bad it only made matters worse with his father. He used to see approval in Pa's eyes. If he ever wanted to see it again, he must not even think of whiskey. He promised Pa.
Stopping inside the State House doors, he breathed the warm humid air and began to climb the steps. At the third step pain became excruciating. He paused on the landing, sweating from the effort, leaning hard on his crutches. Pain shot from his shoulder to his hand while a greater pulsing hurt enveloped his foot as he moved it upon the step. He winced and willed himself up the stairs, pausing again and again.
"Didn't get too wet, I hope." Moses Williams, the museum assistant, greeted him as he reached the top of the stairs. The ex-slave's friendly smile usually cheered him. The orderly environment of the Museum usually quieted his nerves. Here was the temple he and his father and brothers had labored on for so many years. But tonight as he entered the Long Room, not even a wisp of pride pierced through his weariness.
The room occupied half of the width of the building and the entire length of 100 feet. The nine windows facing Chestnut Street seemed to waver as dizziness struck. Raphaelle shook his head and concentrated his gaze on the central window where the big organ stood. The opposite wall was lined with glass cases of birds. Raphaelle had to squint to keep it all in focus. He glanced above the bird display to the collection of his father's portraits of illustrious Americans. Now his vision was sharper. He saw his favorite painting, his father's lifelike staircase scene, which pictured his brother Titian and himself in the foreground mounting the steps. He concentrated on the young Raphaelle in the painting, an image of himself before pain. As he gazed at it the pain eased off. The painting was set in a door frame, and at the base was a real step. So convincing was the illusion that President Washington once tipped his hat in greeting when he walked past it. Raphaelle smiled and limped steadily toward the ticket booth.
"Tom Sully is coming," Moses said with more than ordinary interest. Tom often spent an evening at the Museum. Raphaelle lowered himself carefully upon the stool and stashed his crutches in the corner in front of him. "There now," he said, "and what else have you heard?"
Moses whispered. "Gilbert Stuart and party will be here tonight, too."
"Stuart?" Raphaelle raised his eyebrows. So it promised to be an evening somewhat out of the ordinary. Stuart will have his snuff, but I shall be unreinforced, he thought, wishing again for whiskey to dull the pain to a level that didn't interfere with thinking. The main thing now was to get through the evening without cracking. If it started off well, he could do it.
Though the storm raged outside, the crowd gathered. Stuart and his party arrived early. The hostess, Mrs. Wickscomb, presented Stuart to Raphaelle.
"I believe we've met," Raphaelle said, extending his hand to Stuart. "Welcome to the Museum."
"Yes, of course, how are you?"
Raphaelle could have imagined it, but Stuart's smile seemed a con descending sneer. That was his manner, Raphaelle told himself. In view of the acclaim Stuart enjoyed, he could afford to sneer. His sitters paid handsomely for his flattering brush. His insults were tolerated. Raphaelle knew better than to envy any man, even Stuart, who painted so dashingly that he could pick and choose which commissions he would take.
Raphaelle first saw Stuart's work at the Academy Exhibit. Rembrandt was so impressed he actually went to Stuart's studio for instructions. But Rembrandt would do anything for success—even if it meant chasing like a dog to copy someone else's style. Raphaelle, although admiring Stuart's facility, did not admire a style that made no attempt to finish. Illusion was not complete in Stuart's work, and if his heads were beautiful, his figures were wooden. Raphaelle simply could not beat his breast over Stuart. Let Rembrandt and Tom Sully and anyone else who was so inclined drop to their knees. Raphaelle knew he could not have a better master than his own father.
"Is there anything you want to see?" Raphaelle asked.
Stuart turned to the others in his party with a gleeful look. "I want to see everything from the mammoth and the perpetual motion machine to the Lewis & Clark collection. But let's start with the paintings. Your father's illustrious Americans interest me most." Stuart's eyes gleamed in a mischievous way. Or was that Raphaelle's imagination?
"Of course," Raphaelle said, taking his crutches and leading the way back to the Long Room. "To an artist, they are more interesting than natural history or science. Here's Father's Washington and his portrait of Martha."
Stuart studied the painting, probably comparing it to his own paintings of Washington. After a moment he turned to his party with a suppressed smile. "I wish I knew how old Mr. Peale managed such an amiable expression. George liked to challenge his portraitists overmuch. He hated to pose and only did it because he thought it was his duty. He usually scowled. I dare say, your father has a clever brush to have captured that look, or perhaps the great hero was smiling in his sleep." Stuart laughed. "And, yes, old Mr. Peale's staircase scene. I don't care for such over finishing. Such stark realism is not a style I work in, not free enough, not subtle enough. The illusion is severe. Where is the art?"
An admiring murmur surrounded Stuart, but pain enveloped Raphaelle, a pain that affected his whole body and slowed his breathing. "Anyone who cannot see the art in that painting ought to worry about his failing vision," Raphaelle said.
Mrs. Wickscomb's twittering irked Raphelle, and her lilac scent stung his nostrils. "I have always found the staircase painting charming," she reassured, leading Stuart on toward the middle of the Long Room.
Raphaelle
