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
