Now the room is silent and all eyes are upon me again. I do not learn why until later, when Nellie Hopps explains that today is the first time this school year that Professor Williams has expressed even qualified approval of a student’s sketch. I cannot wait to tell Paul.
*****
LATE FEBRUARY 1870
(FOUR YEARS EARLIER)
Five or so miles past New Fort Kearny on the Platte River, Nebraska
I grasp Paul’s arm and whisper, “Look! To your left—is it a wolf?” Paul nods, and without taking our eyes from this long-awaited wonder we grab pencils and paper from their place at our feet in the back of the wagon. For several moments I study the wolf’s lean, taught muscles, his sleek, silvery fur, his princely head that has never bowed to a master. His ears are laid back, listening to us as intently as we are watching him. Then tentatively, I sketch and look again, sketch and consider, compare my lines with the lines of that masterful body. But his form is only the beginning; his fur is not really silver as it first appears, but as if two coats, an undercoat of white with an overcoat of gray and black that is luminous in the waxing morning light. And his eyes! Even from our distance they appear golden, and he does not take them from us. He neither approaches nor retreats, but simply observes our many lumbering wagons. I am thankful that we are on the outer rim of the wagons, thankful that our family’s is at the end so that we can continue to behold him while we drive away. As his figure grows smaller and smaller and Paul and I sketch from his image burned on our memories, I think there is no better place to draw than our perch at the back of the wagon.
We have just some hours ago left New Fort Kearny, where we all have rested in the shelter of the fort and feasted on eggs, milk, and fresh bread. Not only are Paul and I energized for a day of drawing this new wonder, but the rifle-bearing men and boys of the wagon train have been too full of food and too distracted by the other comforts of our rest stop to see the wolf first and to shoot him, as they have often shot coyotes and other smaller creatures.
By the end of the day, both Paul and I have completed a sketch to our liking, and have stashed it safely away to paint when we reach our new home.
*****
APRIL 17, 1870
(TWO MONTHS LATER)
San Jose, California
“Mama, look!” As our dusty, battered wagon slows in front of a tidy white house at 684 2nd Street in San Jose, I have spotted something that will please my travel-weary mama.
“It’s a castle with a tower!” Gus says.
In fact, the house does have a sort of tower, but there is time enough to see the house. I jump from the wagon, take Mama’s hand, and pull her after me to the side yard, to the roses—deep-red roses with large, full heads and a wonderful perfume.
“Oh, Tillie,” Mama sighs, cupping one large bloom in her palm and bending to breathe the fragrance. “How perfect. These are a different variety from the red roses we had in Franklin, but just as lovely. So early in the year and they are already blooming—what a wonder is this California climate.”
I hug Mama, glad that something of beauty can give her pleasure again, and we join Papa and the others to climb the front stairs and enter the house itself. The front room is spacious and clean, with light streaming through its windows. It is also quite small, though, and entirely empty.
“This is not the fine home I once built for you, Margaretha,” Papa says quietly.
“But it is also not damaged by bullets and cannonballs, and you are not damaged by tar and feathers,” Mama answers, taking his hand. “We will make it a good home.”
Mama and Papa have bought this house with gold they exchanged for in Independence, Missouri, and that is why we can afford to buy property at all after the expenses of the journey. Gold is really valuable, and people like it better than regular money in these days after the Civil War. Now, as I have gathered from what I have overheard, we have almost no money left at all, and we must live very simply for a while until Papa builds his business again.
Still, to have arrived here is something to celebrate. We will stay in this new place, and not be on the trail anymore. After we made it across the Forty Mile Desert, the rest of the trip seemed easy, at least to Paul and me. When we had reached Carson City, Nevada, we were almost in California, and California would be home. Papa said it used to be difficult and dangerous to cross the Sierra Nevada Mountains, but now that there are good toll roads, the going is much easier. We travelled late enough in the spring that we didn’t have to deal with snowstorms, though once as we descended a mountain into a wet valley, the rain came down in torrents with lightning and thunder—nearly as beautiful as it was frightening—and we stopped right there on the road to shelter in the wagon until it was over.
The farther south and west we journeyed, though, the warmer the spring days became. From Sacramento to San Jose, we passed through valleys of wildflowers I had never seen before. I especially liked the tall, brilliant blue and pink ones that look like bunches of grapes turned upside down—fields and fields of them just as we descended from the mountains. Paul and I saw, and of course drew, prong-horned antelope with their stark white and brown coats, black horns, and black face markings, as well as so many birds of prey—hawks, eagles, and owls. I think we will be busy for many months completing drawings of all these new creatures sketched along the trail, and to paint them all could keep us busy for years. But once we were in California the thrill of the journey had passed, and our thoughts turned toward the promise of a home.
Now our life in San Jose begins. The few belongings we unload from the wagon do little to fill the empty rooms, and we will be both sitting and sleeping on the floor for many weeks while Papa makes us some furniture. But Papa and Paul have caught a rabbit, and Mama and Amelia have built a fire in the kitchen to make a stew, while Gus chases a neighbor’s cat and Paul and I gather some volunteer lettuce from the abandoned kitchen garden in the backyard.
Paul walks over to me and takes my hand. “Close your eyes and come with me,” he says, leading me stumbling across the yard. “Keep them closed,” he says, easing me down to a sitting position on the lawn. “Now, breathe.”
My head fills with a pungent freshness, sharp and clean like pine needles, only subtler, with a trace of sweetness. “That’s rosemary,” he says. “It’s for remembrance, remember?”
I remember reading Hamlet together under the oak tree in our Franklin home last summer, though it seems decades ago. I remember the rosemary bush we planted from a cutting that Mrs. Carter gave us, and how we would smell it and quote from the speech Ophelia gives about the herbs after her heart and mind have broken. Suddenly a familiar shaking comes over me, and a dark bitterness.
“I remember, Paul. I remember Hamlet, and then the clan bullies. And before that I remember the battle, and Mattie, and the little drummer boy and Tod Carter. It’s all inside me, Paul, and it won’t go away and it takes the place of being happy. I remember everything.”
“Tillie, I thought you would like it—”
“I know you did, and I am sorry, Paul. I would like to think of just the good memories, but they are all mixed up with other ones that are like horrible weeds, choking them. I would like to be happy inside like you are, but I am not.”
“You are never happy, Tillie?”
“Sometimes. Being with you and Papa and Mama. Drawing.”
Paul puts his arm around my shoulder and I lean my head against his. We sit that way for a long while until Amelia calls us to help with dinner.
*****
AUGUST 1870
(FOUR MONTHS LATER)
San Jose, California
Paul has done odd jobs for neighbors this summer and earned enough money for some oils, which he insists are not his, but ours. Because our new house is small and we have not yet found a place inside where the smell of the oils will not bother our family, we paint outdoors for now.
The yard is small, too, with only two trees, a live oak that is shorter than the Tennessee oaks
and a Japanese maple that is of a medium height. These two modest trees are very important to Paul and me, because we are able to paint in their shade.
Paul has been working on a painting of an eagle in flight, and today I am putting the finishing touches on The Wolf, which I think is the best sketch I captured on our journey across the country. I understand this creature. He is part of a pack and loyal to them, but in my painting he is also a lonely hunter who has to be very strong.
*****
NOVEMBER 1870
(THREE MONTHS LATER)
San Jose, California
“Matilda Lotz,” the teacher says, breaking my concentration. “What is the product of this problem?”
I study the problem on the board, trying to solve it as quickly as possible, but there is no time. I have no doubt the teacher has already worked the problem and given the answer.
“You are failing yet again to pay attention, Matilda. What is it that is distracting you this time?”
My heart races as she approaches my desk and takes in her hand the drawing I have been making of our beautiful new horse Rolf—in the margins of my arithmetic book. No doubt she will scold me, but at least I know that she will not take this drawing from me as she has when she has caught me sketching on loose paper. She will want me to keep the book.
“You have defaced your book, Matilda,” she says, scowling.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
I look up, wanting to tell her how Rolf, such a great luxury for us but one Papa needs to visit clients, has occupied my every thought since Papa brought him home last week. Wanting to explain how attending school and doing homework take up so much of my time that I scarcely find an opportunity to draw during the week. Wanting to say how boring this arithmetic is. But she will not understand, so I am silent.
“Matilda, I want an answer from you. Why have you drawn in your arithmetic book?”
“I am out of paper, ma’am.”
“What? You are out—you should not be drawing during class!”
Again I am silent.
“I will have to take this matter to your parents.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It does not worry me that she will speak with Papa and Mama, who already know that I draw whenever I possibly can—in class, during recess, for a few stolen moments on a sidewalk bench on the way to or from school. I draw animals, mainly—our pigs, our chickens, our cow, and the neighbors’ dogs. I like to invent new animals, too—to picture a calf with wings that can rise up into the sky like an eagle, or a wolf so tiny that it can fit in the palm of my hand. This is all so much more interesting than multiplication.
I have been in school for more than two months now, and it is not really bad, except for all the time it steals from drawing. Some of the stories we read are wonderful, and we also study the history of the United States before the war hurt it so much. I have met some new friends, too. They like to see my drawings and come to visit our animals from time to time on the way home from school. Mama and Papa, especially Mama, insisted that I resume my long-interrupted studies, since I am not needed at home this fall so much as I was over the summer.
The summer was very busy with settling into our new home. Papa began almost at once with a business of making and tuning pianos, and he has earned money enough that we have begun to furnish our house. When not working for a client, Papa bought wood to make beds, chairs, and a table. Mama, Amelia, and I spent long hours sewing featherbeds, linens, and curtains, and when the tinker came through town, Mama bought a few more pots, pans, and kettles. In time, Papa will be able to make another piano for us, and Amelia can play and give lessons again. Dear Papa understands that we all must make our art.
I am counting on his understanding the next day when my teacher raps on the front door, and he, Mama, and she disappear behind the closed parlor door. Of course, in this small house, it is very easy to hear their conversation from my perch on the stairs, where Paul, as ever, comes to join me.
“This obsession with drawing is hurting Matilda’s education,” says Miss Simms. “Why, just yesterday I discovered her drawing a horse in the margin of her arithmetic book!”
A gentle laugh escapes Papa. “Was the drawing good?”
“Was…? Mr. Lotz, your daughter is not focusing on her arithmetic.”
“Indeed. Forgive me, Miss Simms. Naturally that is your chief concern, and it is an important one. Matilda must read and write and do figures, without a doubt. But you see, Matilda has a gift for drawing, and to ask her not to draw is like asking a bird not to sing.”
“But how do you expect me to enforce discipline in my classroom when she is not attending to the lesson?”
“Yes, you must keep order in your classroom. Is Matilda distracting the other students?”
“Well, not exactly…”
“What would happen if she were allowed to draw, on paper of course and not in her book, and to listen to the lesson at the same time? I believe she would be able to do this if you would allow it.”
“But I have never heard of such a thing. It is so unruly.”
“Perhaps. But if Matilda promises to listen to the lesson and to draw only in quiet moments, will you agree to it?”
Silence. I suppose that silence is better than an argument.
After what seems a long time, Miss Simms replies, “Very well. We will try this idea of yours. But if she is unable to answer questions as the other students do, it will have to stop.”
The moment I hear the door close, I fly down the stairs to hug Papa.
“Thank you, dear Papa, thank you! I shall not be a school mistress or a secretary, Papa. I shall draw and paint always.”
“If you are to be an artist, my Tillie, you must be an educated woman, as well, able to keep your accounts, able to read difficult documents and great literature, able to write clearly and express yourself strongly.”
“Yes, Papa. I promise to listen to the lessons as I draw. I can do it.” I hug him more tightly and he rests his dear head on top of mine.
*****
AUGUST 1872
(TWO YEARS LATER)
San Jose, California
I have entered my painting of Mattie in the Santa Clara County Fair, and it has won a blue ribbon. It is a very small painting, ten inches square, and I was only seven when I painted it, but I still think it is the best work I have done so far because of how I knew her, how I could see her. Technique is important, of course, and now that I am thirteen I see that this painting has a lot of flaws, but it also has a lot of truth, and that is more important. I missed Mattie so much then and I would bring her back in my imagination. I imagined that it was a summer morning and I had just rolled down the hill leading to her pasture to surprise her with a hug. She turns her pert head to look back at me the way she always did. If a calf could laugh, this look would be Mattie laughing.
*****
DECEMBER 28, 1877
(FIVE YEARS LATER)
San Francisco, California
The Art Association has awarded me first prize for my oil painting, Coyotes on the Prairie. This is because Mr. Virgil Williams has been a strict and good teacher. He does not give compliments, but always challenges me to do better. When I first arrived at the California School of Design three years ago, I was very possessive of my ideas and their expression. I wanted to learn, of course, but I did not want to change the work I was doing. Mr. Williams has taught me to hold onto my vision but be willing to revise the execution of it on the canvas, to make it better and better until it is the best I can achieve.
One day last year I was painting a pack of coyotes from a sketch I had made on our family’s journey across the country. This sketch meant the world to me because I had done it out in the wild, in the wonder of discovering these new creatures, and with Paul at my side.
“Miss Lotz, you should not go any further with your painting until you correct your sketch.”
“Correct it, sir?” I
asked, stricken.
“Look carefully at the coyotes’ proportions. Are they accurate?”
I was there on the prairie with them, I wanted to say. They were only twenty feet away from me. Have you ever even seen a pack of coyotes on the prairie? Thankfully, I restrained myself.
“I did the sketch on the prairie, sir.”
“I see. And you were how old?”
“Twelve, sir,” I answered, at once recognizing that I would need to improve on a sketch done by a twelve-year-old child on the back of a moving wagon.
When I narrated the story that night at home, Papa explained that Mr. Williams was using the Socratic Method. Instead of telling me, Mr. Williams asked me questions, and as I answered I discovered the answers.
“What do you suggest, sir?”
“I would go to the library and find photographs of coyotes on the prairie. Sketch them, keeping in mind what you saw on that occasion more than what you drew. Paint from that sketch.”
The painting is good. Even more importantly, I have learned that the willingness to accept critique and to revise is one of the qualities that distinguishes a professional artist from an amateur.
*****
OCTOBER 21, 1897
(TWENTY YEARS LATER)
Tata Castle, Hungary
It is pleasant to be here again, enjoying the kind hospitality of Earl Miklós Esterházy who has become my patron and who has made his castle a home to which I can continue to return to rest from my travels. Today he is escorting me to the edge of his gardens, where he says there is a surprise for me.
“You have been very good to paint as you do, Matilda, so Szent Miklós has brought you a present,” he says playfully.
Lift My Eyes Page 10