- end_line
- 3619
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3570
- text
- papa really look exactly like that? Did you ever see him in that same
buff vest, and huge-figured neckcloth? I remember the seal and key,
pretty well; and it was only a week ago that I saw mamma take them out
of a little locked drawer in her wardrobe--but I don't remember the
queer whiskers; nor the buff vest; nor the huge white-figured neckcloth;
did you ever see papa in that very neckcloth, aunt?"
"My child, it was I that chose the stuff for that neckcloth; yes, and
hemmed it for him, and worked P. G. in one corner; but that aint in the
picture. It is an excellent likeness, my child, neckcloth and all; as he
looked at that time. Why, little Pierre, sometimes I sit here all alone
by myself, gazing, and gazing, and gazing at that face, till I begin to
think your father is looking at me, and smiling at me, and nodding at
me, and saying--Dorothea! Dorothea!"
"How strange," said little Pierre, "I think it begins to look at me now,
aunt. Hark! aunt, it's so silent all round in this old-fashioned room,
that I think I hear a little jingling in the picture, as if the
watch-seal was striking against the key--Hark! aunt."
"Bless me, don't talk so strangely, my child."
"I heard mamma say once--but she did not say so to me--that, for her
part, she did not like aunt Dorothea's picture; it was not a good
likeness, so she said. Why don't mamma like the picture, aunt?"
"My child, you ask very queer questions. If your mamma don't like the
picture, it is for a very plain reason. She has a much larger and finer
one at home, which she had painted for herself; yes, and paid I don't
know how many hundred dollars for it; and that, too, is an excellent
likeness, _that_ must be the reason, little Pierre."
And thus the old aunt and the little child ran on; each thinking the
other very strange; and both thinking the picture still stranger; and
the face in the picture still looked at them frankly, and cheerfully, as
if there was nothing kept concealed; and yet again, a little ambiguously
and mockingly, as if slyly winking to some other picture, to mark what a
very foolish old sister, and what a very silly little son, were growing
so monstrously grave and speculative about a huge white-figured
neckcloth, a buff vest, and a very gentleman-like and amiable
countenance.
And so, after this scene, as usual, one by one, the fleet years ran on;
till the little child Pierre had grown up to be the tall Master Pierre,
and could call the picture his own; and now, in the privacy of his own
little closet, could stand, or lean, or sit before it all day long, if
he pleased, and keep thinking, and thinking, and thinking, and thinking,
till by-and-by all thoughts were blurred, and at last there were no
thoughts at all.
- title
- Chunk 4