Benjamin West and His Cat Grimalkin Page 8

  Benjamin shuddered.

  “Thee, Benjamin, may come into the parlor,” said Papa.

  Chapter 20

  THE FORK IN THE ROAD

  Benjamin stepped across the threshold. Little groups of people stood huddled about his pictures. Miller Clinkenbeard was running his finger along the painted cattails.

  “Look mighty furry and natural,” he chirped.

  “La!” shrieked Mrs. Tomkins as she caught sight of the flying squirrel. “I thought the varmint was going to fly out of the picture and land in my hair. I can’t abide flying creatures!” she whimpered, clapping her hands over her head.

  After the committee had looked from picture to picture, they settled down like a flock of rusty blackbirds on a newly plowed field.

  Papa motioned Benjamin to an empty stool in the front row between Beriah Hadwen on the one side and Schoolmaster Snevely on the other. The elders sat on a long bench facing everyone else in the room.

  Grimalkin now pattered softly down the narrow aisle between the women’s and the men’s sides, his ears laid back, his tail lashing the air. When he came to Beriah Hadwen, he stopped dead. The man was sitting on his favorite basket-bottom chair! Slowly he brought his four feet together and arched his back.

  “Ya-aeow-w!” he spat, but only the family knew that he was trying to say, “Thee, stranger! Thee is sitting on my basket-bottom chair. It is mine! Mine! Mine!” Suddenly making a spring, he seized the calf of Friend Hadwen’s leg and began using it for a scratching post.

  “Ee-ee!” screeched the wool comber, trying to shake Grimalkin off. But Grimalkin continued to sharpen his claws with great vigor on Friend Hadwen’s wool stockings.

  “Down!” whispered Benjamin in Grimalkin’s ear, and the word was magic. Grimalkin stopped scratching and hid under the shadow of Benjamin’s stool. A hush settled down over the parlor. It grew deeper. Benjamin watched the sands in the hourglass on the mantel. Seconds and minutes were spilling away.

  At last he could feel a slight movement beside him. Schoolmaster Snevely was on his feet. His voice broke through the stillness.

  “Life is a journey,” he exclaimed in his schoolroom voice. “And sooner or later we come to a fork in the road. Benjamin faces the fork in his road. One way leads to Philadelphia and the occupation of painting; the other points to a useful trade. Aye,” he sighed, “it is a grave concern that lies on this meeting. Let us now give due consideration to the matter.”

  In the silence that followed every head was bowed. All eyes were closed. Benjamin closed his eyes, too. Here in this room his future hung on a thread. A handful of grownups were going to decide about his whole life. How could they know that he was happy only when he painted? How could they know that to him nothing else seemed to matter?

  He did not see Beriah Hadwen rise to his feet. He did not see Grimalkin spring upon the basket-bottom chair and settle down for a cat nap.

  “Friends!” cheeped Beriah Hadwen in his birdlike voice, “pictures are ornaments and ornaments are needless. We have ever been a plain people. We need useful men: candlemakers and potters, and millers and sawyers, and, yes, wool combers. A man’s deeds are fixed in the hearts of his friends. Not his fleshly image on a canvas.”

  And he sat down heavily on Grimalkin, as if the weight of his words were too much for him.

  What a commotion! An ear-splitting howl from Grimalkin, and added to the howling came cries from Friend Hadwen, who shot into the air like an arrow from a blowgun.

  “Poor kitling,” soothed Benjamin, as he took Grimalkin in his arms. “Friend Hadwen did not know he was in thy favorite chair.”

  “The meeting can go forward,” pronounced one of the elders as the room quieted down.

  A long and uneasy silence followed. Benjamin wiped his moist hands on his breeches. The meeting seemed to be going forward, he thought, although no one was saying a word.

  It was almost candlelighting time when a stool scraped across the floor in the men’s section.

  Benjamin said a quick prayer under his breath. Let it be Friend Williamson, O Lord. Let it be him.

  “Friends!” the deep, pleasant voice of Mr. Williamson rang out.

  Thank Thee, O Lord, for Thy promptness, breathed Benjamin.

  “Friends, journey back with me to the year 1682,” the kindly voice was saying. “The good ship Welcome is sailing up the River Delaware. At her prow stands William Penn. His hand is resting on the shoulder of Thomas Pearson, the grandfather of our Benjamin West.

  “Side by side these two men explore the very lands we now cultivate.

  “ ‘What would thee name this spot of land?’ asks William Penn of Friend Pearson.

  “ ‘I would call it Chester,’ replies Friend Pearson. And Chester it has been ever since.”

  Benjamin peered around at the committee. Black hats and starched white caps were nodding in agreement.

  “Now skip the years with me,” Mr. Williams was saying. “William Penn is dead. Friend Pearson is dead. But we, their children, carry on. Mrs. West, Friend Pearson’s own daughter, is here among us. She and John West have raised ten children. Many of us can call to mind the miracle of Benjamin’s birth.”

  Benjamin could almost feel his ears prick forward. What was this about a miracle? What was this?

  “It was a First Day morning of autumn, in the year 1738,” Mr. Williamson’s voice rolled on. “The great preacher, Edmond Peckover, was visiting Chester County. He preached in our meetinghouse until the very rafters seemed lighted with an Inner Light.

  “So deeply was Mrs. West stirred that her tenth child, Benjamin, was born before his time. Thee, Dr. Moris, will remember Edmond Peckover’s words.”

  “Aye,” agreed Dr. Moris, “I remember them well. ‘Thy son will be no ordinary man,’ he predicted, as he shook Mr. West’s hand.”

  Benjamin grew wide-eyed. Why, how very exciting! he thought. He had never heard this story before. He looked across at Mamma. Her hands were folded quietly, and she looked into the fire as if there the whole story were repeated.

  Mr. Williamson took a deep breath. “Edmond Peckover’s words have come to pass,” he said. “God has given a great gift to Benjamin—the art of painting. Who can say that it shall be quenched like fire? Let him use this gift to portray the best that is in Nature and in Man. If I may so say, the signpost on his road points to Philadelphia.”

  Suddenly voices were raised from every part of the room.

  “I hold with Friend Williamson’s words.”

  “I hope the committee will approve his words.”

  “I am of the same mind.”

  “Yea.”

  “Yea.”

  “Yea.”

  Schoolmaster Snevely rose. “A boy who found his colors in the earth, who made his own brushes from his cat’s tail, who used poplar boards for paper—such a boy should be sent to Philadelphia with our blessings.”

  “We are all in agreement,” piped the wool comber from Goshen, but this time he did not rise from his basket-bottom chair.

  A short period of silence followed, a warm, friendly silence. It made Benjamin feel good to the very soles of his feet.

  Now the elders turned to one another, shook hands, and suddenly the meeting was over. Somehow, Papa’s and Mamma’s and Benjamin’s eyes met. There was a smile among them.

  Then Papa stirred the fire and Mamma lighted the bayberry candles. Never before had the parlor seemed so bright. Firelight danced on the walls and gave color to the sober faces of the elders. The candles burned yellow arrows of light and held them in soft blue halos.

  Benjamin was the center of a buzzing circle. How nice their hands feel! he thought. Not hard and cold at all, but warm and rough, like Grimalkin’s tongue.

  As the circle widened, there was a little lull. It was plain to see that everyone expected Benjamin to say something. For a long time no sound came—only the singing of the fire.

  “I aim to make you glad of your belief in me,” Benjamin said at last. “
I aim to make you glad.”

  “Friends,” Mamma announced from the doorway, “a little refreshment is ready.”

  Not counting the family, twenty-six sat down to table. Everyone was in fine appetite. The whipped sillabub vanished like snow in April, and the mountain of caraway cakes dwindled until only a few crumbs were left.

  The sky was hanging out its flickering lanthorns when the committee members mounted their horses and turned out of the courtyard. Grimalkin chased them until they were well beyond the gate. Then he flew back into the house and tucked his snow-wet paw into Benjamin’s hand. He held it there for a very long time, as much as to say, “I congratulate thee, too, Benjamin, but don’t forget me in thy plans.”

  Chapter 21

  THE UNKNOWN JOURNEYMAN

  Two mornings later Benjamin stood in the center of the kitchen, wondering what to do with himself. It seemed strange to be wearing his First Day suit on Third Day. He had never noticed it before, but his arms were too long for the sleeves. He felt as gangly as a newborn colt!

  His eyes glanced about the kitchen and fell upon his knapsack. For two days now it had leaned against the wall like a tired person.

  Grimalkin slept on it by the hour. It was as if he knew it held all of Benjamin’s belongings as well as his own things—the collar and lead that Benjamin had made for him in Philadelphia, a packet of dried catmint, the bell he always wore around his neck during the bird-nesting season, his wooden dinner basin.

  “Is thee below, Benjamin?” called Mamma from the head of the stairway. “The girls are tidying thy room,” she said with a catch in her voice. “They found this poplar board behind thy bed.”

  Slowly she made her way down the stairway, treasuring the poplar board as if it had been a lock of hair.

  “Methinks some journeyman bound for Philadelphia will surely come today,” she said. “The snow is stopped. The hollows in the road are well packed for travel. The streams are frozen and passable. Sleighing will be exceedingly pleasant.”

  Benjamin was a long time answering. He knew he should be happy, but somehow the kitchen was warm and cozy and Philadelphia seemed big and far away. And the very thought of traveling with an unknown journeyman made him break out in prickles of goose flesh. Suppose the man was not overfond of cats. Suppose . . .

  Mamma seemed to read Benjamin’s mind. “A mannerly cat is welcome even on a journey,” she replied with firm assurance. “And when the stranger sees the good bean porridge all frozen in a solid chunk and ready to tie onto his sleigh, he will be glad of a boy and a cat for company. Thee had best take a hatchet along to chop the porridge.

  “Now then,” Mamma went on with a little smile, “it has been in my mind a pretty while that we have no image of Grimalkin, except the one in our hearts. I desire a good likeness to set upon the mantel. Begin it now, lad, whilst I draw my bread from the oven.”

  Benjamin tried to speak, but a choking filled his throat. How nice it was that he and Mamma did not need words!

  He lifted the knapsack with Grimalkin still dozing on it, and moved it to a little patch of sunlight. The cat stretched, opened a sleepy eye, and watched with grave interest. Then he yawned a long pink yawn and gazed up with an air of approval that said quite plainly, “This now, this is like olden times!”

  Benjamin’s paintbox was packed away in the knapsack, so he began rummaging in the little cubbyhole beside the hearth. He found a small hard lump of yellow clay, softened it with skimmed milk, and added some indigo from the dye pot. “This be as green as thy eyes,” he said to Grimalkin as he stirred the mixture. Then he picked up a piece of charcoal and set to work. Oh, the joy of having something to do! “If I don’t watch myself, I might purr like Grimalkin,” he laughed.

  His hands moved swiftly and surely. And little by little the whiskery face of a cat began to look out from the poplar board. It was an impish face. Ears pricked forward. Mouth open in a mischievous smile. Eyes green and shining.

  Benjamin was lost in a world of his own. He did not hear the clicking of the latch. He did not hear the door creak open and then shut again. He did not feel the cold gust of wind that swirled into the room.

  Suddenly a hand gripped his shoulder and a voice whispered in awe, “Iss Grimalkin you paint?”

  Benjamin almost fell off his stool. He whirled around and stood facing a tall blond boy, a boy whose sleeves were too short for his jacket.

  “Jacob! Jacob Ditzler! It is thee!” And then his tongue went silent.

  Jacob’s eyes were fastened on Grimalkin. Moving slowly now, so as not to frighten the cat, he walked around Benjamin and stopped before the knapsack.

  Grimalkin leaped lightly to the floor and began sniffing Jacob’s boots. Then he rubbed himself against Jacob’s legs. In an instant Jacob was on his knees, his arms around Grimalkin. “Ai Yai Yai” he breathed. “You don’t forget Jacob. It wonders me how you remember.” At last he turned to Benjamin, his eyes filled with happiness. “Chust like you said. A house cat you make of him. You here right along, ain’t?”

  “No, Jacob. I’m going to Philadelphia—to paint. Think on it. To paint!”

  “No!” exclaimed Jacob. “Ach, no!”

  Benjamin nodded.

  “Why, I go, too, Benjamin. My pa iss out in the wagon shed mit your pa. A new sleigh we got and two oxen already. We go by Philadelphia too. Soon a shipbuilder I am. Soon I make ropes and sails. . . . Ach, Benjamin, you can ride to Philadelphia along, ain’t?”

  Suddenly Door-Latch Inn rang with noise and laughter. The girls flew downstairs from their cleaning. Papa and the boys and Mr. Ditzler came in, stamping the snow from their feet.

  The kettle was singing over the fire. The table board was heaped with hot corn bread and deermeat and cheese and eggs and blueberry tarts.

  But Benjamin and Jacob were so full of plans they had little room for food. Besides, they were looking forward to building a fire in Penn’s forest together and chopping off a great hunk of frozen bean porridge and heating it over their own fire.

  Mr. Ditzler, however, had a robust appetite. He cleaned his plate three times. Then he looked out at the sky.

  “Chust midday,” he announced as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “If ve go now ve get maybe ten, twelf miles behind us already before dark night comes.”

  In a moment the entire family was standing before a bright red sleigh in the winter sunshine of the courtyard. Everything was in readiness—Benjamin’s knapsack wedged in between a little cowhide trunk of Jacob’s and a bag of feed for the oxen, the bean porridge tied onto the back of the sleigh. Now Mr. Ditzler and Jacob and Benjamin climbed in the sleigh and let Mamma and Papa tuck them in snugly with a bearskin.

  “My little wren,” whispered Mamma while Papa scowled and grunted to hide his real feelings.

  Grimalkin leaped up on Benjamin’s shoulder and placed one paw on Jacob’s back. He sniffed Jacob in a warm friendly way, playfully cuffing the tail of his foxskin cap.

  “Gee-op!” cried Mr. Ditzler.

  Slowly the oxen shuffled off, their sleigh bells playing a kind of haunting tune.

  When Door-Latch Inn was out of sight Jacob turned to Benjamin with a deep sigh. “Everything gets all right, ya?”

  “Aye, everything,” chuckled Benjamin.

  And Grimalkin let out a happy purr-r-r-rieu into the frosty air.

  Chapter 22

  FATHER OF AMERICAN PAINTING

  It was a morning, clear and joyous, in the summer of 1898. Nearly one hundred and fifty years had passed since the little red sleigh set out for Philadelphia.

  Knots of people were gathering about an old stone house in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. An American flag veiled the space between two windows of the house. It stirred lightly with the wind, but gave no hint of what was underneath.

  For several hours the crowds kept on coming—in surreys and gigs and high spring wagons. Men in tan derby hats stroked their chin whiskers and pulled out from their vest pockets enormous gold watches on long chains. Ladies
in tiny black bonnets and long silk skirts rustled their children into a little half-circle about the flag.

  As the morning wore on, sun parasols popped out, thick as mushrooms after a rain.

  At last a man with a trim white beard took his place before the flag.

  “It’s the Reverend Mr. Joseph Vance,” the word went around.

  Voices quieted. An expectant hush settled down over the wide green lawn.

  “Friends,” came the deep-toned voice of the Reverend Mr. Vance, “we are gathered here to keep green the memory of Benjamin West. One hundred and sixty years ago he was born in the south room of this house.”1

  And while the bees played an obbligato and a wren sputtered at the disturbance, Mr. Vance began to draw little pictures in everyone’s mind. He showed the boy, Benjamin, making a “hair pencil” from the fur of his cat’s tail. He showed him with the Indians, digging his colors from the earth. He showed him standing, trembling and fearful, before the elders and overseers, hoping they would not “call him off from his painting.” He showed him studying history at the Academy of Philadelphia and painting miniatures to earn his keep.

  Then he transported his hearers across the ocean where Benjamin West became President of the Royal Academy of England, and court painter to His Majesty George III, King of Great Britain and Ireland.

  “Friends!” said Mr. Vance as he measured his words with slow purpose. “It was Benjamin West who first dared to paint historical figures as they actually appeared—Indians in their war paint, British officers in their scarlet coats. Other artists of his day held to the old custom of clothing all historical figures in long white mantles called togas.”

  A slow smile spread over Mr. Vance’s face. “I like to picture Benjamin West wearing his Quaker hat in Windsor Palace and refusing a knighthood because, as he himself told the King, ‘To Quakers, titles are needless. The only title we covet is that of Friend.’ ”

  When at last the Reverend Mr. Vance folded his paper and slipped it into its envelope, W. Benjamin West, a descendant of Benjamin’s brother Samuel, stepped up to the flag. With trembling fingers he drew a cord. The flag rose. And there, placed in the stone of the wall, was a memorial tablet. He read the inscription in a clear voice so that it carried to the very outer fringe of the gathering.