The Last Painting

“By thunder, what is this?” Russell spoke aloud in the midst of the chaos of the dusty room. A smell of mold rose out of the leather pouch. The creases at the edges looked as though they might rip apart. Inside, there was another leather envelope. Russell opened the inside envelope carefully. Whatever was inside, his grandfather must have put it away long ago.

“Merciful God!” It was a picture. Another painting!

Russell pulled it out with care and sat staring at it for several minutes. It was eerily beautiful and, at the same time, the scene that was depicted was uncomfortably intense.

“This is not possible! How was it missed?”

Here was a picture his grandfather must have painted when he was doing his Southwest series. Could it be he imagined this scene, or was it real? Why had it never been shown? Maybe that was clear. Maybe. What would its value be? What would the value be now with his grandfather’s increased reputation, now that his grandfather had not painted a new picture in almost ten years?

Russell slipped the painting back into the envelope and the envelope into the leather pouch. For a while, he sat there, thinking of it all. The only way to resolve this was to ask the old man himself. Did the painting have a name on it? Russell pulled it out again. Carefully he turned the painting over examining the front and back. It looked like his grandfather’s style, but there was no name … no name to identify the artist. The painting was gently put into the envelopes again.

Russell stood and looked over the room of his grandfather’s belongings. He was about halfway finished sorting things. Stepping over stacks, he walked to where his hat lay and put the pouch in the satchel under his hat. He would ask. He would see what his grandfather would say.

It was not until later in the afternoon that Russell was able to get to his father’s house. His mother was solicitous as usual when she came into the parlor where Russell had been ushered.

“Yes, mother. I’m fine,” Russell lowered his eyes. “I’ve been sorting through grandfather’s things. There are some items I wanted to discuss with him.”

For a moment his mother just looked at Russell. “Shouldn’t you wait for your father? You know, your grandfather was not taking care of … of your grandfather’s things.” Her fingers fumbled with the belt of her skirt. “What is it about, dear?”

Russell turned to the window. “Mother, there is no need for you to worry.” He took a deep breath. “It is neither property nor financial matters.” Turning back to his mother, he insisted, “I want to see if he has a memory of some of his travels out West … out West when he was painting.”

Her face relaxed. “Dear, you know all those painting are sold. That was a wonderful series that showed the life of those people.” She turned from him and straighten a vase on the hall table. “What did you want to know, Russell?”

Russell hesitated, then smiled. “I was thinking of how he got around. It was so wild out there. No roads, still savage country.”

Russell’s mother nodded. “Oh, dear. All that was so dreadful. Your grandmother was so worried.” Turning, she led Russell into the parlor. “Your father and uncle at home alone with your grandmother, not knowing where he was.” Shaking her head, she looked down. “It was so uncertain. He gave up his law practice, everything, and just left. Dreadful.” His mother took a deep breath. “We were lucky that there was an interest in the paintings of those …” She looked around. “Oh, do put your things down and sit over here, Russell. I will get Maria to get us some tea.”

“No. Thank you, mother.” He nodded his head in appreciation of the invitation. “Is grandfather awake? Can I see him?”

“Why, yes. I think so.” Her eyes searched her son’s face. “He usually is on the sun porch just sitting in his chair. Just sitting. Let’s tiptoe down and see if he is awake.”

Russell left his hat on the hall table and followed his mother down the darkened passage way. A smile crossed his face as he smelled the house. How familiar that smell was. This was the way his home had always smelled. He’d asked his wife about it. She had snorted and said it was moth balls. To Russell, it was the smell of home.

They came to the porch. In exaggerated steps feigning quietness, his mother approached the old man sitting with his head back against the chair, his eyes opened, peering out into the gardens. The gardens were bright with the colors of early spring.

“Father Stein, are you awake? Russell is here. He wants to see you.”

The old man turned his head and looked at her. Then, slowly he raised his eyes and looked across the room to Russell. With a slight movement of his head, he nodded consent.

“Here, Russell.” His mother started pulling a chair up. “We can just talk here and look at the garden. Come, dear.” She leaned toward her father-in-law and raised the level of her voice. “We’ll enjoy talking with Russell. Won’t we, Father Stein?”

The old man looked at her. The expression on his face did not change. The garden, this woman, this room. What did it matter?

“Mother,” Russell came over. “Can I talk to him alone?”

“Why, dear! What on Earth?” She stood there for a minute. Then, her hands started to flutter over her blouse and fumbled with the button of the collar. “Why sure, dear. I’ll have Maria bring you both a cup of tea. You just sit right here and you two men talk about your things.”

“Thank you, mother. That will be nice.”

Russell brought a chair over and sat next to his grandfather. When Russell’s mother left the room, the old man let his head fall back on the chair. His eyes were still open. He stared out into the garden. Russell turned and looked out into the garden to see what held his Grandfather’s fascination.

“The flowers are pretty.” Russell started.

There was a long period of silence.

“Grandfather?” The silence continued. Russell sat back. The old man’s face showed the wrinkles of age, of a life spent too much in the sun. His face was permanently brown with the dark spots of age on his temple and under his right eye. Whoever shaved this leathered and wrinkled face each morning was not able to really do it well.

Maybe it was too late to find out about the painting. “Grandfather?” He started again.

“It’s the color.” The voice was soft and scratchy. “I never got color so brilliant.”

Russell looked out to the garden, now filled with the rays of late afternoon sun. “Your colors were great, Grandfather. Everyone loved your paintings. And, they were a commercial success. You should have no regrets.”

The old man turned his eyes from the garden to the young man sitting beside him. Russell felt the intensity of the stare and averted his eyes again to the garden.

There was a reproach in the old voice. “Go to Europe! Look there for color!” The man turned his head back to the garden. “Which one are you?”

Russell sighed. This was useless. “I’m Russell, Grandfather. Your son’s oldest son.”

“Hmmm?” The old man settled back, rested his head on the back of the chair, and closed his eyes. “Why have you come to talk to this old man who will not be left alone?”

“Grandfather. Daddy told you that I am cleaning out your house. I am putting things in boxes. I came across something I want to ask you about.” He paused. Was the old man asleep?

His voice was a whisper. “Why are you putting my stuff in boxes? Burn it. Burn all the damn trash. It is gone. It’s over.”

Russell cleared his throat. “I found a painting I want to ask you about.”

“I thought they sold all the paintings. Took them off the walls and sold them.” He raised his hand and pointed a yellowed, shaking finger at his grandson. “They never asked me.” He settled back in the chair again. “Never.”

Russell bent over and opened the satchel. Just as he was about to pull the inner envelope out, Marie came in with a tray holding a pot of tea, two cups, two saucers, and a plate of small scones. Russell stood.

“Hello, Maria.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Russell. You want I should fix his tea?”

“No. Thank you. I know. I remember how he likes it.” Maria watched while he poured a half cup of tea in the larger cup and stirred in a spoon of sugar. “Thank you,” he said again and nodded. Maria curtsied and left the room.

Russell looked over at his Grandfather. “Grandfather, I have your tea.”

His Grandfather raised his head, looked at his grandson, and then looked at the cup being held in front of him. With two shaking hands, he reached for the cup and brought it to his lips. Slightly tipping the cup, he sipped loudly, and then lowered the cup into his lap.

“Why have you come? Tell me again.” That once booming voice now trembled with age.

Without hesitation, Russell sat and turned quickly to the leather envelopes. Gently, he pulled the painting out. He held it before his Grandfather trying to get it close enough that he would be able to see it, and far enough away so that if the old man raised his cup, he would not hit the painting.

“Tell me about this painting, Grandfather. I found it locked away and in two leather envelopes.”

His grandfather opened his eyes. For a while, his eyes wandered over the painting. It was as though he was an art critic, seeing the painting for the first time, wanting to give an appraisal of its value.

Then he whispered. “Do not burn that one. That man … Once is enough.”

Russell lay the painting across his own lap. His grandfather had recognized the painting. It was curious. Russell felt as though the hair on the back of his neck was standing up. An excitement ran through him.

His grandfather whispered something. Russell could not understand what he said. He leaned forward and, raising his voice, he asked, “What, Grandfather? What did you say?”

The old man looked up into Russell’s face. A detectable head tremor started. Leaning forward, he strained to say it. “His name was Michael.”

Russell looked at the painting again. The man had a name. It was real.

The grayed head had sunk back against the chair. His eyes closed. Russell had to lean forward to hear. “I had spent more than a week with Tisquantum. Two sketches. I made two sketches.”

He looked over at Russell. “The paintings I made from those sketches sold. Did you see them?” Twisting his head, but leaving it against the caned chair, he looked back toward the garden. “You are too young. What do you know?” And, then he continued. “He was a robust man … stood erect. He wanted me to paint him wearing only a breechcloth.”

His grandfather coughed. It was a wet, hacking cough. “My handkerchief. Where is my handkerchief?”

Russell looked around the room. There was a stack of cloths on the table by the two chairs. Russell got one and handed it to his grandfather. The old man wiped his mouth and continued. “Did you see the painting? He shaved his head across the front, but his black hair flowed down his shoulders in the back. This almost naked man had agreed to let me sketch him, his face covered with reddish-purple dye. Around his neck hung a pouch of tobacco, a long knife, and a thick chain of white shells. His oldest son and his seven wives sat behind me. They watched as I made the sketches.”

The grandfather was quiet for a while. Then, without a change in tone, he continued. “Tisquantum offered one of his wives to care for me while I was there. I knew it would have been an insult to refuse. Also, I was a young man.”

Russell looked down. They both sat quietly for a while. And, then the old man continued. “I left there going east toward the Red River Canyon. It was my plan to make my way to Sante Fe. Tisquantum’s son rode with me to his tribe’s burial grounds. Before he left me, he told me about the route around that area. He painted the neck and forelegs of my horse as a sign for safe passage. He warned me not to enter the burial area.”

He looked over to Russell. “I used that coloration in pictures of horses that I later painted. I would have never thought of that … of painting the horses.”

A smile was almost on his face as he sat there looking out into the garden. “For me, on that day, the painted horse was a protection. It was a protection from the young tribal boys.” His voice quivered, “Those savage boys were sent out as guards for the burial grounds. They did not allow strangers to disturb the spirits that rested there. I was warned. I went around.” The old man nodded his head. “I was warned.”

It was quiet again. Russell broke the silence. “This painting … It was not just your imagination?”

The old man scowled as he turned to Russell. “I told you his name!” It was a stern scolding response. Gathering his thoughts again, he sat quietly. “There were buzzards already there, high up in the sky.” Both his hands raised from his lap and, trembling, he circled them in the air. “I saw the buzzards as I was climbing out of the eastern edge.”

“There was a trail, but it was steep … just loose rock. I was not riding the painted horse. I was leading him … leading him by the halter.”

“I remember there were eleven buzzards. They did not tell me that one of the tribe had died. But, I was a stranger and a white man. This could have happened. No one would have told me.”

They sat quietly again. Russell wondered if he should stop the telling for now. It seemed his grandfather was getting tired.

“Two more buzzards came up on an updraft from the other side of the ridge. Thirteen! It was a bad sign.”

They sat silently. Russell did not want the old man to quit. He didn’t know if he should say go on, or to wait. In time, the story continued.

“I got back on my horse. Whatever was there, I wanted to have the protection of the painted horse. When I first saw the man, I thought he was dead. The horse was spooked. Both of us. I was coming up on the side of the man. I didn’t know what I’d find when I got to the front. Figured the buzzards had not come down yet. Circling there. His head was hanging forward. Dead, I guessed. I moved further off the trail, to the front.”

“Spooked horse. He neighed. His ears standing straight up. I figured he saw something, heard something, smelled something. Scared me. The man … he heard the horse. He jerked and looked up. ‘Help me!’ That’s what he said when he saw me. For a while I sat there on my horse.”

“I heard the hoot of an owl. I knew that was no owl. I guessed they were warning me. I was on a painted horse, but I was a white man.”

“He asked for water. While I was untying a canteen from the saddle, I heard a rock fall up above … up above where we were. I looked up and saw only a movement. They were letting me know. The horse didn’t want to move to where the man was. We circled several times. I made him. If he had thrown me, … “

“I held the canteen to the man’s mouth while I still sat on the horse. When he had swallowed three times, I took it away. He held his head forward, asking for more. I screwed the lid on. He looked up at me.”

“I told him that I was one and a half or two days from the river. He asked me to cut him down. The horse was trying to walk away. It wasn’t just the smell. The horse knew how human sweat smells.”

“I asked how long he’d been there. He looked up at me. His eyes were bloodshot, red. ‘Does that matter?’ he asked me. He told me, ‘I was trying to get through at night, bright moon,’ he said. ‘They got me ‘bout an hour before the sun came up. The sun was already up fore they hung me here.’ “

Russell was now looking at his grandfather. His grandfather turned to him and, almost as though looking for permission, said what Russell knew. “I had to sketch him.”

“I tied the horse away, got out my chalks and pad, and tried as quickly as possible to make the sketches. So I wouldn’t forget. He watched me for a while, me sitting on a rock sketching. In a while he asked if I was going to cut him down.”

The old man shook his head. “What he said was ‘You ain’t going to cut me down, are you?’ I told him that the Comanche Indians that had put him there were watching from the rocks up there. I didn’t figure that there was room for us both where he was. I told him that if I tried to cut him down, well, I figured they’d tie me out somewhere to watch, and some time later, they’d let me be next.”

“He asked me if I was drawing his picture. I told him yes. He asked if I could put in the picture that he had no feeling in his hands, that his shoulders felt like knives were sticking in them, that his mouth was dry and his skin was burning. I told him that I would try.”

Russell looked down at the painting.

“When I finished and was putting the canvas away. He spoke to me again. He sounded like a man who had a dry mouth. He asked me to shoot him. I told him that the Indian boys up on the ridge were going to watch someone burn in the sun. They were going to watch the buzzards finish what will be almost done. He asked for more water before I left. I told him that it would be over sooner if I had not given him any at all. I looked back up to the hillside and started to ride away. He yelled out. He asked for me to tell the people who saw the picture that his name was Michael.”

Russell’s Grandfather now sat quietly. Then, “Your grandmother would not let me keep the sketch. She burned the original. I thought that would finish it for me. I kept seeing the man … seeing Michael … so I did that small painting. I never let her see it. I never stopped seeing it.”

The old man coughed and fumbled for the handkerchief. “Michael and I were young. He would take a long time dying. I know that because I’m old and I’m taking a long time.”

The cup that was still in his lap turned over, the tea spilling on the floor. Russell jumped up. “I can get you another cup.”

“No.” The old man whispered. He lay his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. “It is time for me to see what happened to Michael.” Russell strained to hear him. “No more. I have told you.”

September, 2005

Some background for this story

George Catlin was an American artist in the early part of the 19^th century. He was born in Pennsylvania, the fifth of fourteen children. As a young man, he left home to read law. At some point he decided to abandon his law practice and go West to explore the culture of the Native Americans. His paintings are the basis of many of our conceptions for how the people living along the Missouri River looked, lived, and dressed when Lewis and Clarke explored the Louisiana Territory. Examples of Catlin’s work can be found with a Google search on George Catlin.

I have known about George Catlin’s work for some time. However, in reading the book 1491, by Charles C. Mann, I was reminded of this important collection of art. I also recalled that James Alexander Thom had used Catlin in his novel of historical fiction The Children of First Man. That novel makes a connection with Catlin, the Mandan Tribe, Mobile Bay, North Georgia, Kentucky, and a settlement along the Missouri River. See, for example,

http://www.tylwythteg.com/fortmount/Ftmount.html

and, for the connection with A Man Called Horse, see

http://members.aol.com/Gibson0817/catlin.htm

As for what happened to Michael, I decided to leave that alone. Edgar Allen Poe gave me permission to do this by failing to tell what was in the pit in his short story The Pit and the Pendulum.