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- 3370
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z
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- start_line
- 3294
- text
- IV.
"Tell me, aunt," the child Pierre had early said to her, long before the
portrait became his--"tell me, aunt, how this chair-portrait, as you
call it, was painted;--who painted it?--whose chair was this?--have you
the chair now?--I don't see it in your room here;--what is papa looking
at so strangely?--I should like to know now, what papa was thinking of,
then. Do, now, dear aunt, tell me all about this picture, so that when
it is mine, as you promise me, I shall know its whole history."
"Sit down, then, and be very still and attentive, my dear child," said
aunt Dorothea; while she a little averted her head, and tremulously and
inaccurately sought her pocket, till little Pierre cried--"Why, aunt,
the story of the picture is not in any little book, is it, that you are
going to take out and read to me?"
"My handkerchief, my child."
"Why, aunt, here it is, at your elbow; here, on the table; here, aunt;
take it, do; Oh, don't tell me any thing about the picture, now; I won't
hear it."
"Be still, my darling Pierre," said his aunt, taking the handkerchief,
"draw the curtain a little, dearest; the light hurts my eyes. Now, go
into the closet, and bring me my dark shawl;--take your time.--There;
thank you, Pierre; now sit down again, and I will begin.--The picture
was painted long ago, my child; you were not born then."
"Not born?" cried little Pierre.
"Not born," said his aunt.
"Well, go on, aunt; but don't tell me again that once upon a time I was
not little Pierre at all, and yet my father was alive. Go on, aunt,--do,
do!"
"Why, how nervous you are getting, my child;--Be patient; I am very old,
Pierre; and old people never like to be hurried."
"Now, my own dear Aunt Dorothea, do forgive me this once, and go on with
your story."
"When your poor father was quite a young man, my child, and was on one
of his long autumnal visits to his friends in this city, he was rather
intimate at times with a cousin of his, Ralph Winwood, who was about his
own age,--a fine youth he was, too, Pierre."
"I never saw him, aunt; pray, where is he now?" interrupted
Pierre;--"does he live in the country, now, as mother and I do?"
"Yes, my child; but a far-away, beautiful country, I hope;--he's in
heaven, I trust."
"Dead," sighed little Pierre--"go on, aunt."
"Now, cousin Ralph had a great love for painting, my child; and he
spent many hours in a room, hung all round with pictures and portraits;
and there he had his easel and brushes; and much liked to paint his
friends, and hang their faces on his walls; so that when all alone by
himself, he yet had plenty of company, who always wore their best
expressions to him, and never once ruffled him, by ever getting cross or
ill-natured, little Pierre. Often, he had besought your father to sit to
him; saying, that his silent circle of friends would never be complete,
till your father consented to join them. But in those days, my child,
your father was always in motion. It was hard for me to get him to stand
still, while I tied his cravat; for he never came to any one but me for
that. So he was always putting off, and putting off cousin Ralph. 'Some
other time, cousin; not to-day;--to-morrow, perhaps;--or next
week;'--and so, at last cousin Ralph began to despair. But I'll catch
him yet, cried sly cousin Ralph. So now he said nothing more to your
father about the matter of painting him; but every pleasant morning kept
his easel and brushes and every thing in readiness; so as to be ready
the first moment your father should chance to drop in upon him from his
long strolls; for it was now and then your father's wont to pay flying
little visits to cousin Ralph in his painting-room.--But, my child, you
may draw back the curtain now--it's getting very dim here, seems to me."
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