“I see. I had begun to doubt that premise, during the night.”
“You did not sleep well?”
“Off and on.” She handed him a neatly folded slip of paper, which he recognized as the slip Mrs. Brixton had handed Rebecca yesterday. He opened it and read.
Oh Seeker of Truth
Dare ye look in the eye
Of the Sun at Noon?
“Gibberish,” he said, folded the paper, and handed it back to her. “Of course, you are free to stay on without further delay or negotiation, or consideration.” He was unable to find words to put it delicately. That, too, had been a part of the colonel’s purpose.
She looked directly at him. “Mr. Sanborn, you know I am not mad.”
He returned her stare. Perhaps he hesitated a moment too long. “I know, Rebecca. But, to be honest, I’m no longer certain that confinement at the Brownes’ is preferable to confinement, or rather removal and rest, here.”
“That is a conundrum I revolved in my own mind during the night. But, I find I prefer no confinement at all.” Her eyes were defiant.
“Ah, yes. There is of course an alternative. However—”
“Blessed matrimony,” she interrupted him.
“It may be blessed by comparison to this,” he said, feeling equally defiant now. “Or a closed room on the second floor of the Browne manse.”
“You know they do not intend to allow me to remain with them.”
“They find it too vexatious. I doubt they would allow it for long now.”
She turned away. There was a window in her room, west facing, and she went over to it and looked out.
“Rebecca—” Sanborn began.
“Did you hear him last night? Mr. Holt?”
“I confess I slept heavily and utterly. At what hour?”
“Near three o’clock. It didn’t last long. Those strange tongues again.”
“It is unsettling.”
“Very. Even at this distance.” She looked out on the parsonage garden below. “It’s small,” she said, apparently referring to the garden. “But quite beautiful. Mrs. Oldmixon, I take it, has a hand and eye for the flowers.”
He said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.
“No,” she finally said. “I’ll return with you, Mr. Sanborn. I want to go home.”
He had misunderstood her at first, for he did not realize she had no intention of returning by their arranged passage. She wanted to see something of Boston first, she said. They had earned it. She wanted him to pay his initial visit to Mr. Fleet with her illustrated manuscript, as they had agreed he would. There was no hurry about returning that particular day. He decided to indulge her; he was, after all, on a mission to persuade her to accommodate herself to the Brownes’ proposals, and it would be necessary to humor her somewhat in order to maneuver her toward that goal. What matter a day or two more? He had been given license to do whatever necessary to bring her around. He left her at Oldmixon’s and returned to the wharf to arrange passage on the next sloop for Portsmouth where passage was to be had. As it turned out, that gave them three more days.
Before he returned to Oldmixon’s he stopped by the Orange Tree Tavern and put a deposit on lodging for them—half a bed in a common room for himself and a private garretlike room for Rebecca. The price of the garret was much greater than he should have expended, and the landlady had little inclination to give over the space to a single occupant. But Sanborn pleaded his “sister’s” indisposition, and the woman relented once she saw the money. The lodging was near Mr. Smibert’s elegant house on Queen Street, and Sanborn hoped to visit the old gentleman again with the thought that it might do Rebecca good to peruse the Colour Shop and studio in the mansion. In addition, the Orange Tree was situated near both the government (or Town House) and mercantile districts. While making these arrangements at the tavern, he hired a boy to take his card around to the old master, with a note scribbled on the back, to the effect that he would call on him the following morning well after the breakfast hour.
And then he went looking for Thomas Fleet’s shop in Cornhill at the sign of the Heart and Crown. He discovered a substantial house that served as both residence and printing house with a convenient shop selling all manner of goods and notions and a front chamber for evening auctions. He entered with Rebecca’s portfolio manuscript in hand.
A clerk, in a green cloth apron, who seemed as competent as he was officious, greeted him. Mr. Fleet was “not available.” Sanborn explained his mission and showed his letter from Mr. Fleet. The clerk nodded ever more courteously as he read the letter.
“If you’d care to leave it with us, sir,” the clerk said, “we may provide an estimate of expenses, and options available.”
“May I return tomorrow then?”
The clerk hesitated, cocking his head with its small wig. “Of course,” he finally said.
Sanborn hesitated to part with Rebecca’s portfolio, but when the clerk carefully took the manuscript tied neatly between boards and listed it in a heavy leather-bound account book, and then turned to place the manuscript on a shelf alongside several other boxes and portfolios, he felt better about it.
“Good day, sir,” he said to Sanborn and then turned to other work he’d had in hand when Sanborn had entered.
THE NEXT MORNING Smibert’s nephew and assistant John Moffatt, a vigorous and efficient looking man of about forty, showed them into the Colour Shop.
“Mr. Smibert should be here shortly,” Moffatt said, after introductions. “Please have a look around.” Then he left them to alert his uncle to Sanborn’s arrival.
Rebecca immediately began to consider the rich collections of supplies for artists and prints for patrons of the arts. She moved about as if she were in someone else’s church, respectfully examining its sacred contents. On display were boxes of gold and silver leaf, every sort of painter’s brush and palette knife, black lead pencils and street pencils, colors ground and mixed, cakes of pigment, all manner of papers, fans and fan mounts and brushes, gold picture frames, and a host of mezzotint prints of European and American artists—including Peter Pelham’s prints of Smibert’s own works, including Smibert’s portraits of William Pepperrell, Samuel Waldo, and other heroes of Louisbourg. And a fine large print of Smibert’s famous eight-foot-by-five-foot portrait of Peter Faneuil. There was a stack of books of ship prints, so that portrait painters might accurately depict their mercantile patrons’ vessels in the background. And there were collections of the latest prints of London portraits so that New England’s painters might avail themselves of the latest fashion in costume and pose.
Rebecca wrinkled her nose at the portrait prints, but Sanborn thought them all wonderful and informative. Yet they dared not speak their opinions for fear of being overheard at an embarrassing pass in conversation or disagreement. In fact, a black serving girl, whom they later heard referred to as Phyllis, suddenly appeared to assure them Mr. Smibert was on his way.
Shortly afterward the old master entered, from a door leading to other rooms of the house, wearing a dressing gown and turban cap. He was a man of some sixty years, or nearly so. His eyes were a little bleary and his handshake not as firm as Sanborn remembered it from his visits to the master some years ago. He had a weak chin running to neck folds, but an amiable face.
“Sanborn!” he said, managing a hearty smile. “Good to see you again, sir. You must tell me of your successes in Portsmouth—I’ve heard something of it, of course. And whom have we here?” He turned toward Rebecca, who was coming toward them now.
“Miss Rebecca Wentworth,” Sanborn said. “Herself an artist of most conspicuous talent—”
“Indeed! Indeed!” the old master said, interrupting Sanborn. He took Rebecca’s hand and bowed to it gracefully. “My pleasure, miss. My great pleasure. You have been perusing these wares, I see.” His arm swept over the shop. “And have you found something to your taste?”
“Many things, sir,” she answered. “The richest collection of col
ors and brushes I’ve ever beheld. A very heaven of colors.”
He laughed. “Well, then, by all means don’t allow us to detain you. Choose your heart’s desire among all these.” He indicated particularly the color boxes on display.
“Go ahead, Rebecca,” Sanborn said. “Allow me to offer you a modest gift.”
“I believe I shall, sir.” She turned from them again and began to examine carefully the variety and quality of colors.
Smibert laughed in his friendly, self-effacing manner and turned back to Sanborn. “And how are things in Portsmouth, Mr. Sanborn? You have found much work to do, I hear. Portraits, lessons, what have you.”
The two men talked of the Port and mutual acquaintances, eyeing Rebecca from time to time as she went about her careful, scrutinizing business. When she had finally chosen several particular colors—Sanborn could discern lake and Prussian blue among them—Smibert accepted Sanborn’s payment and invited them into his studio on the floor above.
Here they witnessed an even larger collection of prints, plaster casts and busts, architectural drawings, and painterly equipment. There were also a number of his own copies of masters: Cardinal Bentivoglio, after Van Dyck; The Continence of Scipio, after Poussin; Danae, after Titian. And there were portraits of his own as well: Dean George Berkeley and His Entourage (a conversation piece, he informed them, that was painted at Berkeley’s home, Whitehall, when they had all first come to America), Grand Duke Cosimo III, and a recent portrait of a gentleman, perhaps unfinished or drying, beside another unfinished landscape, on easels at the center of the room. Sanborn knew that Smibert was known for holding on to a finished portrait before delivering it to his most noble patrons.
“Governor Shirley?” Sanborn asked, indicating the unfinished portrait.
“A fine sitter, sir,” Smibert said. “A man of patience and generosity. I had the deuce of a time with General Waldo, however. The man could not keep still, but would always be leaping up and pacing about, like the agitated and active military man he is.” He shook his head.
“Very well done, sir,” Sanborn said, nodding toward the Shirley.
“My powers are diminishing,” Smibert said. “My eyesight weakens steadily. My hands grow less firm and sure. I’ve taken to landskips to refresh me. They seem now to provide repose.” He pointed to the other painting upon an easel.
“Very fine as well, sir.” It was a formulaic landscape but lovingly executed. Sanborn pictured him fiddling away weeks, even months, on it.
“You humor an old man.”
“Not at all, sir. You are a long way from finished, or even weakened, by the look of these.”
Smibert smiled and ambled over to Rebecca, who had taken the liberty to examine some prints of Italian painters mounted on both sides and above a window.
“And what do you make of these, Miss Wentworth?” he asked.
“Masterful, sir.” She bordered on the impolite by continuing to examine the prints. “Masterful.”
“They repay study. Much study.”
“There are few enough opportunities in Portsmouth, sir, for study,” Sanborn said.
Smibert turned toward him. “I expect so.” He mused a moment and then changed the topic. “Robert Feke. Remember Robert Feke, Sanborn?”
“You introduced us, yes. Just before I left on the Portsmouth commission in forty-one.”
“Yes. Well, Sanborn, he surpasses me now.”
“I’ve heard no one say so, sir. And from what I had seen of his work, I can’t believe it myself.”
“Oh, people are too kind about such things, Sanborn. The apprentice succeeds the master, and all that, though I only offered him hints, models, and prints to observe. But he does, he succeeds me, in any case. A man whose study has repaid him well. A natural hand for the brush improved by self-teaching and study. He’s due to return soon, by his correspondence to me. Perhaps this year or next, to pay me a visit and see to a commission or two.”
“I should like to see him again,” Sanborn said.
“Of course I don’t keep up my end of the correspondence enough. I’m a terrible one for scribbling, and never was much of a reader, to tell the truth. Ol’ Berkeley used to enjoy upbraiding me on that score. But he’s been a loyal one, Mr. Feke.” Smibert smiled, as if musing again. “And he promises a visit.”
When Sanborn didn’t respond immediately, Smibert added, “And now there’s John Greenwood about, capturing the best commissions.”
“Rebecca has a natural genius as well, sir,” Sanborn said.
“Is that so?” He turned to her again. She continued to study various prints.
“Rebecca,” Sanborn said. “Would you be so kind as to depict a little something for Mr. Smibert. So he not think me fanciful, or a mere flatterer.”
“A little something, Mr. Sanborn?”
“Whatever you like,” Sanborn said. He had thought to alleviate her melancholy by getting her to paint again, after the dreariness of the madhouse visit. And he wanted the old master to assess her capacity, as if to confirm his own astonishment.
Rebecca pulled herself away from the print and faced them.
“I would be honored,” Smibert said. He appeared genuinely curious himself now.
She curtsied and walked over to the easel with the fresh landscape. She looked at it a few minutes, saying nothing further.
“From a long-ago memory,” Smibert said. “Memory is now my better eye.”
“Italy?” she asked.
“Outside Florence,” he said. “The ranges of hills there. You must see for yourself some day.”
“If I were allowed,” she said, still looking at the landscape.
The two men looked at one another. Rebecca removed her traveling cloak and smoothed her dress. “Have you an apron?” she asked. “Or a smock that might fit?” She held out her arms as if to demonstrate her proper size.
Smibert left the room and returned with an apron and an old shawl, to cover her arms and bodice somewhat more. While he was gone, she chose her brushes, palette knife, maulstick, and a comfortable palette. Then she turned to the colors assorted on one of his worktables. When her traveling dress was covered, she carefully set the master’s landscape down off the easel and left it facing her against a chair leg, about five feet from her. Then without further conversation or delay, she placed a canvas on the easel and began, as was her habit, to paint from right to left a quick approximation of Smibert’s Tuscan landscape. The two men took chairs behind her and observed the process. Their eyes seemed not to trouble her in the least, as if the men had ceased to occupy the room with her.
When the canvas was filled with her initial layering (which, in the past, would have served as well for a finish) she stepped back for a quick look. Then she renewed her palette and returned to the canvas again. Smibert looked at Sanborn. He was clearly affected. They did not speak. The painting now began to take on deeper, richer qualities. Details of the olive trees and the fields in the foreground were becoming suddenly discernable. A strange yet beautiful light began to suffuse the painting, and when she turned her brush upon the sky, an angelic being began to emanate from the hazy blue, as if some medieval papist were quickened through Rebecca to manipulate her brush.
Nearly two hours had passed when Smibert slowly stood up holding his back, as if he comprehended it all, finally—her rapid brushstrokes, her profluent fancy and vision, the quirky superiority of her painting compared to his own efforts to amuse himself idling in a remembered landscape. She ignored his pacing the floor behind her.
Sanborn looked carefully at the angelic being. There was no halo or Christian emblem. It was rather like a man-woman, but perfectly at home in the sky, smoothly integrated into its proper milieu. Occasionally he exchanged glances with Smibert.
Finally Smibert ceased his pacing and scrutinizing and sat down again beside Sanborn. He groaned as he adjusted his weary bones, leaned over to Sanborn, and said in a low voice, “Refreshment.”
Sanborn turned to look
at him.
“Refreshment,” he repeated, his voice louder now. “What would you care for?” He looked toward Rebecca, too. “Cakes and cider? Or perhaps we should dine. Yes, it has passed two of the clock.” He got up and went over to another worktable where he found a little bell, which he rang vigorously. Soon Phyllis appeared. Within another thirty minutes, she returned with two trays of boiled beef dinners. Through it all, Rebecca had not stopped painting.
Smibert politely insisted she partake of the meal with them. By then her landscape was well under way. She had worked it through perhaps four layers, in that new style for her, but still always moving right to left across the canvas. While they partook of the meal on the worktable, which Smibert had cleared off quickly, they considered the painting.
“The most unusual technique I’ve ever beheld,” the old man said after consuming several large forkfuls of beef and cabbage.
“I knew you’d see it to be,” Sanborn said. “I can assure you, sir, she has been most amazing from childhood.” He had been anxious over whether the master would consider Rebecca’s revision of his Italian landscape offensive to him. But the old man did not seem agitated.
“But how . . . ? Where did you learn, or study, my dear?” Smibert asked.
“Nowhere, sir. I had only drawing lessons of my tutor, and a bit of painting on glass, like spinet lessons. But she lent me some of her instruction booklets as to mixing and applying colors. And then Mr. Sanborn has been so kind as to offer a word now and then of advice.”
“I see,” he replied, taking another bite. “Extraordinary.” He looked at Sanborn in an honest and disarming manner, “A wonderful prodigy, sir. Never seen anything quite like it myself.” He looked at Rebecca again, still chewing. “Though the prodigious woman-child is something of a commonplace among those later known for their palette and brush. Clara Peeters, Giovanna Garzoni, Elisabetta Sirani, Louise Moillon, and Rosalba Carriera. Still, it is something to behold oneself, even in a more mature young lady like Miss Wentworth.” He thought a moment. “Have you tried limning, Miss Wentworth?”
“Seldom,” she said.
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