She had been her father's companion
and aid, present at the sittings, preparing his brushes and colors,
and painting in backgrounds and accessories; and would willingly
show his palette and explain his methods and theories of color, his
predilection for scrumbling shadows thinly in black and then
painting boldly in with body color. Her lessons had not profited
much to the gentle, kindly old lady, for the productions of her own
brush were far from resembling her great parent's work. She,
however, painted cheerfully on to life's close, surrounded by her
many friends, foremost among whom was Charlotte Cushman, who also
passed the last years of her life in Newport. Miss Stuart was over
eighty when I last saw her, still full of spirit and vigor,
beginning the portrait of a famous beauty of that day, since the
wife and mother of dukes.
Miss Stuart's death seems to close one of the chapters in the
history of this city, and to break the last connecting link with
its past. The world moves so quickly that the simple days and
modest amusements of our fathers and grandfathers have already
receded into misty remoteness. We look at their portraits and
wonder vaguely at their graceless costumes. We know they trod
these same streets, and laughed and flirted and married as we are
doing to-day, but they seem to us strangely far away, like
inhabitants of another sphere!
It is humiliating to think how soon we, too, shall have become the
ancestors of a new and careless generation; fresh faces will
replace our faded ones, young voices will laugh as they look at our
portraits hanging in dark corners, wondering who we were, and
(criticising the apparel we think so artistic and appropriate) how
we could ever have made such guys of ourselves.
Pages:
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247