Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction Read Free Page B

“That’s all right. I’ve completed my work, so it will not matter, to this painting, if you express your response to it.”
    â€œIf it won’t matter, I should remain silent in any case.”
    â€œI don’t mean it that way. I mean it won’t distract me from the work. Not now.” He gave her his best avuncular smile. “Well?”
    She turned her full attention to the painting. “I think that it is quite good, Mr. Sanborn. I especially like the dress. The folds and color—your drapery is accomplished.” She seemed satisfied with that pronouncement.
    â€œAnd? What of yourself then?”
    â€œThe face, you mean?”
    â€œAnd the form.”
    â€œWell, sir, the face is a good likeness, but I appear a little dull, unfeeling, perhaps a little drowned in cloth. I suppose it is the tedium of my sitting.” She looked at him, smiled, and then turned back to the picture. “And the hands, were they a little stiff, rather like a doll’s?” She held up her hands and inspected them. “Now I see that even my pose, precisely as I sat, is rather . . .”—she searched a moment for the best word—“derived.”
    He was taken aback. “I’m not sure what you mean, Rebecca. I paint according to the best principles, and within the tradition of my masters, and theirs before them.”
    â€œOh yes, I see that.” She smiled pleasantly. “And I know that people of fashion wouldn’t hear of anything else. That they by nature chiefly consider the drapery of others, so that it is a necessary imitation of the best models.”
    â€œIt is rather a kind of quotation ,” he said, emphasizing the last word. “Each artist brings himself to the task, but mindful of his masters and the great tradition of his predecessors.” He looked to see if she attended to his words. “Correctness and order must take precedence over a sitter’s personal characteristics. Or eccentricities.” Perhaps he was being a little stern, he thought, or foolishly impatient with a child.
    â€œOf course,” she said, looking at the painting. “The hands are beautifully colored, that tone of the flesh, I mean. And I’m thankful you allowed my own costume. I think it is very good, sir, and that mother will be pleased.”
    â€œThank you,” he said. Was that final compliment enough? Or had the child pointed out precisely his weakness: He had never quite learned to bring hands and faces to life. Mr. Highmore had said as much. But few patrons had expected him to vivify faces and hands individually. Some modest degree of characterization, particularly among the male sitters, was sufficient.
    â€œYou paint well yourself,” he said, “for someone of your age and without training, who has not closely studied preceding artists.” He was cleaning up and being as matter-of-fact as he knew how to be. “I’m curious as to how you learned to do it. Perhaps you could show me?”
    â€œI taught myself, and Miss Norris, my tutor, has given me diverse instruction manuals. And I do observe, when opportunity arises, the work of others. But ever since I could walk, Mother tells me, I was known for standing before papers and boards applying crayon and paint. It has always been the most interesting thing for me to do, for some reason.”
    â€œMay I see then?”
    â€œI had better consult with Miss Norris,” she said and left the room.
    She returned in a few minutes and directed him toward an odd little chamber on the first floor behind the kitchen where she and her tutor had rigged a classroom-studio for her lessons. As they passed through the kitchen, they offered their good-days to the cook and her assistant, and Rebecca introduced him to the governess, one Miss Norris, a small but not unappealing woman, who sat at a long table meditatively sipping her tea. Clearly, Rebecca had already explained their