Gilbert Stuart
(1755-1828)
ON DESPERATE SEAS
GILBERT STUART
ike
a true believer entering a shrine, John Neal
tiptoed rever-j
ently into Gilbert Stuart's Boston studio. The
more art is banished from the main current of national life by utilitarian pursuits, the more holy it
seems to its votaries. In the roaring 1820's, when all the energies of the nation were absorbed in the
growing settlements beyond the mountains, John Neal, that sensitive youth who aspired to culture,
thought of Gilbert Stuart as a god. Was not Stuart recognized as the greatest painter in America? Had he
not preserved the features of Washington for all future ages? Humbly Neal advanced toward the end of his
pilgrimage.
He passed the threshold with eyes modestly downcast, but when he
looked up, the worship in his expression gave way to surprise. He saw before him a furious-looking old man
whose dishevelled clothes were encrusted with snuff, and one of whose feet was bound up because of gout. A
huge mouth curved powerfully downward among the sagging muscles of his lower face; bloodshot eyes stared
with unpleasant intensity from behind red lids. This terrifying countenance was dominated by a tremendous
nose whose purple-red veins proclaimed its owner a perpetual drinker. When Neal asked incredulously if this
was Gilbert Stuart, the corners of the mouth lifted suddenly into a sarcastic smile. However, the voice in
which the painter admitted his identity was suave and had the well-bred London sound that Americans
associated with culture. Neal was reassured by the courtliness with which he was shown to
a
chair; it was a mistake, he decided, to judge by first
appearance.
247
After a few minutes, the painter excused himself and
limped to a closet. Neal expected him to bring out some delicately tinted painting for them to exclaim over
together, but Stuart emerged with a half-gallon jug in which red liquid swished sibilantly. Swinging the jug
over his shoulder, he poured two brimming glasses, "like cider-switchel at haying time," Neal remembered. When
the lad hesitated about drinking his portion, the painter told him not to worry: the Madeira was good; it had
been twice around the Cape.
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