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 did not follow, but watched after them, measuring the arrogance of the man by the way he walked, when his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.
"Can I help you at the ticket booth?" Sarah asked as she approached him. "You'll want to talk to the guests." She smiled and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.
Forgetting his irritation, Raphaelle turned to Sarah. "Ah, Dame Fortune is smiling. The ticket booth is in your capable hands. Thank you."
"Thanks, Cuz. I shall be perfectly sweet."
She smiled at him with such enthusiasm he could only shake his head. Once he had been that eager to please: he wanted to please his father and the world in that order, while Sarah wanted to please Miss Sarah Peale first and then, if convenient, the rest of her world.
"Now you can show Mr. Stuart around," Sarah said and turned toward the ticket booth.
Among James's children the serious one seemed to be Anna, while Sarah had the Peale gaiety, at least for now. Raphaelle watched her as she sat erect on the stool, looking straight ahead, fluffing her hair around her forehead. He wished his own daughters were as eager to study drawing and painting as Sarah was. He would like to teach them what he knew, but it was too late; their mother had already schooled them in the worthlessness of his art. He was not a good teacher anyway.
The Stuart party headed for the Mammoth Room, and Raphaelle thought he ought to join them, but just then Anna approached.
"You're looking lovely," Raphaelle said.
"Thank you." She kissed his cheek without actually touching it. Nevertheless her greeting was warm. "Did Sarah tell you she was copying the still life you left in our painting room to dry?"
When he shook his head, Anna smiled. "You ought to see her measuring brush strokes, comparing her mixed paint to your canvas, and mumbling oaths under her breath when something doesn't please her, which is constantly. But when father or I try to help, she pushes us away and says your canvas is enough."
Raphaelle smiled, but briefly. Sarah would probably outgrow her taste soon enough and concentrate on Rembrandt's portraits or allegories.
As Anna and Raphaelle entered the Mammoth Room, the knot of people around the prehistoric skeleton turned politely. "A most impressive creature," Stuart said. "I dare say we are lucky they became extinct."
Raphaelle had no inclination to discuss the exhumation of the bones, although he had told the story enough to have developed it into a lively five-minute lecture. Tonight he would let them look the immense bones and imagine for themselves—tonight his nerves were too much on edge from the lack of liquor, or perhaps it was the effect of being in the presence of the Stuart apotheosis. His subjects' adoration disgusted Raphaelle. He felt bitterness and jealousy when ever he faced another's success with his own failures. But he never wanted to give in to such a consuming defect in his personality.
Raphaelle was glad to see the light fading enough so they could begin the illumination. He signaled Moses. Together they lit the whale-oil lamps while the guests gathered around the great organ. A woman in a flowered frock played softly. Music was as important to Raphaelle as it was to his father. Harmony is the soul of Natural History, a sign over the organ proclaimed. Soon the lights were blazing and the music became more lively. Raphaelle sat between Sarah and Anna strumming his mandolin and leading the singing.
At nine o'clock he walked to the lectern to begin the lecture. The pain in