Four years of rebuilding after the burning of the public buildings in the war has not accomplished nearly as much here as in Baltimore. Here there is no elegance. My first impression was of entering a hodgepodge of buildings on an unattractive bit of pasture. But perhaps I was too hasty. We arrived in a cold driving rain and were turned away from three inns before Uncle Charles asked a friend to intercede for us. That is how we got rooms in the home of Mr. Stills on Pennsylvania Avenue for ten dollars and eight dollars each for board. The rooms are upstairs, but we are grateful to have it, even though Uncle Charles had to fix the fireplace which smoked awfully. Then he repainted the studio room with a mixture of yellow ochre, red ochre and Spanish white, which makes a fine background for portraits .But I must not fill my letter up with unimportant details. What you will want to hear ' about is our painting of President Monroe. Uncle Charles arranged the sitting through the same friend who found us the rooms. You can't imagine how nervous I was when we set off for the presidential mansion. Uncle Charles took charge of loading the easel and paint boxes into a hack. I trembled during the entire ride. Hannah was the only calm one. Calling on the President of the United States did nothing to ruffle her. I was sick with worry, but Uncle Charles noticed my trembling and took my hand. "Never doubt yourself," he said. "You have won critical awards, not undeserved. You will do what needs doing." While we waited for the President, coffee was served in an airy room with walls and carpeting all in green. The linen table cloth blindingly reflected the light. Mrs. Monroe, who looked every dignified inch the President's lady, surprised us by complaining bitterly the whole time about the dismal weather they were having. It was so ordinary, Sarah, I quite forgot to be nervous. Then the President walked into the room. "Mr. Peale, I presume," he said, offering his hand to Uncle Charles. His stature was noble, his features refined and spiritual. And when I thought of having to capture all that on my ivory, I trembled again. We were led to an adjoining room, where Hannah and Mrs. Monroe did needlework while Uncle Charles and I painted our portraits. We had hardly begun when a clerk came in for a word with the President. They whispered. The President signed papers. But when he assumed the pose again, his expression had changed, the angles were different. This happened again and again with clerks coming and going. Sometimes the President had to leave the room for long periods. Mrs. Monroe explained how busy he was. "Early in the morning is best. Come for breakfast at seven-thirty tomorrow. There will be fewer interruptions then," she said. I moaned when I looked at my ivory that evening. I remembered his small gray eyes, the cleft in the chin, the high cheekbones. But my drawing was spotty. It did not even approach what I remembered, and a mediocre likeness of the President just wouldn't do. I was even more anxious when we got to the mansion the next morning for breakfast. Mrs. Monroe greeted us again, but the President was absent. "James could not rise as early as usual this morning," she told us. "A pain in his head." We expressed our sympathies, but she fluttered her hand and whispered that last evening's festivities had gotten out of hand, and the President put too much wine in his stomach. We waited two hours before he arrived, and when he did appear, he did not wish to talk and did not smile. A more somber expression I have never seen. He was interrupted as often as before. Through it all, I learned how to suspend my concentration and to come back to the work without losing ground. But still my progress was slower than Uncle Charles's. His was masterful; wait until you see it. He noticed that I needed another sitting, so he told the President he was almost finished and would appreciate one more session. That evening we were invited to dine at the mansion. I hesitated telling you this, Sarah, because I know you will be miserable with envy. Don't be. We rushed home to change and make ourselves presentable, rushed back, arriving promptly on the hour, but we waited and waited and waited before the meal was served. Uncle Charles took advantage of the time to talk with the President and some of his advisors about government support for the Museum. But the President warned him not to expect help because "In Washington City, there is never enough money to go around." At the next sitting Sarah M. Peale we finished our paintings, and the President and Mrs. Monroe were very complimentary to Uncle Charles. Then Mrs. Monroe looked at my miniature, smiled and said, "Oh yes, it's so very like the James 1 know." You will see it soon enough and may judge for yourself how well I captured our President.
Sarah felt her chest fill with envy. Oh, how miserable it was not to be there with Anna. Why was she struggling with shadows and curls while Anna was painting in the presidential mansion? Sarah's temples throbbed with impatience. How long would it be before she could do what Anna was doing?
I am trying to do as you asked and not leave anything out, but many things will have to wait until I see you. As soon as the Monroe portraits were finished, Uncle Charles arranged for sittings with Henry Clay, and Mr. Calhoun, the Secretary of War. Calhoun is the man Uncle Charles is speaking to about Papa's war pension. These people trust Uncle Charles at once. They know of his collection of portraits of illustrious Americans. To be hung alongside his portraits of Franklin, Washington, and Jefferson is an honor. But I mustn't ramble when there is so much to tell you. Our first sitter was Colonel Johnson, a man said to be of great promise and a hero of the battle of the Thames. I had expected an older man, but Col. Johnson swept in wearing his red coat and looking more like a genuine hero than I could have imagined. He has a white smile, a ruddy complexion, curly black hair, and a more congenial man you'll never meet. He offered to make arrangements with other Congressmen and talked about Jackson with fervor. He sat for his portrait with military poise that made his features easy to draw. After giving us a good sitting, he extended his kindness to many other matters such as driving us all over Washington City in his handsome barouche. When I see you, I will tell you all about painting Mr. Clay and Mr. Calhoun, both men of tremendous energy and charm. I have never seen more expressive eyes than Clay's. In the meantime, learn all you can for some day you may be painting a Mr. Clay, too
Affectionately, Anna
P. S. Uncle Charles and Aunt Hannah want you to join us in Washington City over the Christmas holidays. Bring clothes suitable to the season of gaiety.
Chapter 5
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