 | Pierre, or, The ambiguities |  |
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
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 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.”
“Well, I thought so all along, aunt,” said little Pierre, obeying;
“but didn't you say the light hurt your eyes.”
“But it does not now, little Pierre.”
“Well, well; go on, go on, aunt; you can't think how interested
I am,” said little Pierre, drawing his stool close up to the
quilted satin hem of his good Aunt Dorothea's dress.
“I will, my child. But first let me tell you, that about this
time there arrived in the port, a cabin-full of French emigrants
of quality;—poor people, Pierre, who were forced to fly from
their native land, because of the cruel, blood-shedding times
you, a good while ago.”
“I know all about it;—the French Revolution,” said little
Pierre.
“What a famous little scholar you are, my dear child,”—
said Aunt Dorothea, faintly smiling—“among those poor, but
noble emigrants, there was a beautiful young girl, whose sad
fate afterward made a great noise in the city, and made many
eyes to weep, but in vain, for she never was heard of any more.”
“How? how? aunt;—I don't understand;—did she disappear
then, aunt?”
“I was a little before my story, child. Yes, she did disappear,
and never was heard of again; but that was afterward,
some time afterward, my child. I am very sure it was; I
could take my oath of that, Pierre.”
“Why, dear aunt,” said little Pierre, “how earnestly you talk
—after what? your voice is getting very strange; do now;—
don't talk that way; you frighten me so, aunt.”
“Perhaps it is this bad cold I have to-day; it makes my
voice a little hoarse, I fear, Pierre. But I will try and not talk
so hoarsely again. Well, my child, some time before this beautiful
young lady disappeared, indeed it was only shortly after
the poor emigrants landed, your father made her acquaintance;
and with many other humane gentlemen of the city, provided
for the wants of the strangers, for they were very poor indeed,
having been stripped of every thing, save a little trifling jewelry,
which could not go very far. At last, the friends of your father
endeavored to dissuade him from visiting these people so
much; they were fearful that as the young lady was so very
beautiful, and a little inclined to be intriguing—so some said—
your father might be tempted to marry her; which would not
have been a wise thing in him; for though the young lady
might have been very beautiful, and good-hearted, yet no one
on this side the water certainly knew her history; and she was
a match for your father as your dear mother afterward did, my
child. But, for myself, I—who always knew your father very
well in all his intentions, and he was very confidential with me,
too—I, for my part, never credited that he would do so unwise
a thing as marry the strange young lady. At any rate, he at
last discontinued his visits to the emigrants; and it was after
this that the young lady disappeared. Some said that she
must have voluntarily but secretly returned into her own country;
and others declared that she must have been kidnapped
by French emissaries; for, after her disappearance, rumor began
to hint that she was of the noblest birth, and some ways allied
to the royal family; and then, again, there were some who
shook their heads darkly, and muttered of drownings, and other
dark things; which one always hears hinted when people
disappear, and no one can find them. But though your father
and many other gentlemen moved heaven and earth to find
trace of her, yet, as I said before, my child, she never re-appeared.”
“The poor French lady!” sighed little Pierre. “Aunt, I'm
afraid she was murdered.”
“Poor lady, there is no telling,” said his aunt. “But listen,
for I am coming to the picture again. Now, at the time your
father was so often visiting the emigrants, my child, cousin
Ralph was one of those who a little fancied that your father
was courting her; but cousin Ralph being a quiet young man,
and a scholar, not well acquainted with what is wise, or what
is foolish in the great world; cousin Ralph would not have
been at all mortified had your father really wedded with the
refugee young lady. So vainly thinking, as I told you, that
your father was courting her, he fancied it would be a very fine
thing if he could paint your father as her wooer; that is, paint
him just after his coming from his daily visits to the emigrants.
So he watched his chance; every thing being ready in his painting-room,
in dropt your father from his walk. But before he came into
the room, cousin Ralph had spied him from the window; and
when your father entered, cousin Ralph had the sitting-chair
ready drawn out, back of his easel, but still fronting toward
him, and pretended to be very busy painting. He said to your
father—`Glad to see you, cousin Pierre; I am just about
something here; sit right down there now, and tell me the
news; and I'll sally out with you presently. And tell us somethings
of the emigrants, cousin Pierre,' he slyly added—wishing,
you see, to get your father's thoughts running that supposed
wooing way, so that he might catch some sort of corresponding
expression you see, little Pierre.”
“I don't know that I precisely understand, aunt; but go on,
I am so interested; do go on, dear aunt.”
“Well, by many little cunning shifts and contrivances, cousin
Ralph kept your father there sitting, and sitting in the chair,
rattling and rattling away, and so self-forgetful too, that he
never heeded that all the while sly cousin Ralph was painting
and painting just as fast as ever he could; and only making believe
laugh at your father's wit; in short, cousin Ralph was
stealing his portrait, my child.”
“Not stealing it, I hope,” said Pierre, “that would be very
wicked.”
“Well, then, we won't call it stealing, since I am sure that
cousin Ralph kept your father all the time off from him, and
so, could not have possibly picked his pocket, though indeed,
he slyly picked his portrait, so to speak. And if indeed it was
stealing, or any thing of that sort; yet seeing how much comfort
that portrait has been to me, Pierre, and how much it will
yet be to you, I hope; I think we must very heartily forgive
cousin Ralph, for what he then did.”
“Yes, I think we must indeed,” chimed in little Pierre, now
the mantle.
“Well, by catching your father two or three times more in
that way, cousin Ralph at last finished the painting; and when
it was all framed, and every way completed, he would have
surprised your father by hanging it boldly up in his room
among his other portraits, had not your father one morning
suddenly come to him—while, indeed, the very picture itself
was placed face down on a table and cousin Ralph fixing the
cord to it—came to him, and frightened cousin Ralph by
quietly saying, that now that he thought of it, it seemed to
him that cousin Ralph had been playing tricks with him; but
he hoped it was not so. `What do you mean?' said cousin
Ralph, a little flurried. `You have not been hanging my
portrait up here, have you, cousin Ralph?' said your father,
glancing along the walls. `I'm glad I don't see it. It is my
whim, cousin Ralph,—and perhaps it is a very silly one,—but
if you have been lately painting my portrait, I want you to
destory it; at any rate, don't show it to any one, keep it out
of sight. What's that you have there, cousin Ralph?'
“Cousin Ralph was now more and more fluttered; not
knowing what to make—as indeed, to this day, I don't completely
myself—of your father's strange manner. But he rallied,
and said—`This, cousin Pierre, is a secret portrait I have
here; you must be aware that we portrait-painters are sometimes
called upon to paint such. I, therefore, can not show it
to you, or tell you any thing about it.'
“`Have you been painting my portrait or not, cousin
Ralph?' said your father, very suddenly and pointedly.
“`I have painted nothing that looks as you there look,'
said cousin Ralph, evasively, observing in your father's face a
fierce-like expression, which he had never seen there before.
And more than that, your father could not get from him.”
“And what then?” said little Pierre.
“Why not much, my child; only your father never so
much as caught one glimpse of that picture; indeed, never
knew for certain, whether there was such a painting in the
world. Cousin Ralph secretly gave it to me, knowing how
tenderly I loved your father; making me solemnly promise
never to expose it anywhere where your father could ever see
it, or any way hear of it. This promise I faithfully kept; and
it was only after your dear father's death, that I hung it in my
chamber. There, Pierre, you now have the story of the chair-portrait.”
“And a very strange one it is,” said Pierre—“and so interesting,
I shall never forget it, aunt.”
“I hope you never will, my child. Now ring the bell, and
we will have a little fruit-cake, and I will take a glass of wine,
Pierre;—do you hear, my child?—the bell—ring it. Why,
what do you do standing there, Pierre?”
“Why did'nt papa want to have cousin Ralph paint his picture,
aunt?”
“How these children's minds do run!” exclaimed old aunt
Dorothea staring at little Pierre in amazement—“That indeed
is more than I can tell you, little Pierre. But cousin Ralph
had a foolish fancy about it. He used to tell me, that being in
your father's room some few days after the last scene I described,
he noticed there a very wonderful work on Physiognomy,
as they call it, in which the strangest and shadowiest
rules were laid down for detecting people's innermost secrets by
studying their faces. And so, foolish cousin Ralph always
flattered himself, that the reason your father did not want his
portrait taken was, because he was secretly in love with the
French young lady, and did not want his secret published in a
portrait; since the wonderful work on Physiognomy had, as it
were, indirectly warned him against running that risk. But
cousin Ralph being such a retired and solitary sort of a youth,
he always had such curious whimsies about things. For my
ideas on the subject. To be sure, I myself can not tell you why
he did not want his picture taken; but when you get to be as
old as I am, little Pierre, you will find that every one, even the
best of us, at times, is apt to act very queerly and unaccountably;
indeed some things we do, we can not entirely explain the
reason of, even to ourselves, little Pierre. But you will know
all about these strange matters by and by.”
“I hope I shall, aunt,” said little Pierre—“But, dear aunt, I
thought Marten was to bring in some fruit-cake?”
“Ring the bell for him, then, my child.”
“Oh! I forgot,” said little Pierre, doing her bidding.
By-and-by, while the aunt was sipping her wine; and the
boy eating his cake, and both their eyes were fixed on the portrait
in question; little Pierre, pushing his stool nearer the picture
exclaimed—“Now, aunt, did 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
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.
Before the picture was sent to him, in his fifteenth year, it
had been only through the inadvertence of his mother, or
rather through a casual passing into a parlor by Pierre, that he
had any way learned that his mother did not approve of the
was the picture of his father, and the cherished property of
a most excellent, and dearly-beloved, affectionate aunt; therefore
the mother, with an intuitive delicacy, had refrained from knowingly
expressing her peculiar opinion in the presence of little
Pierre. And this judicious, though half-unconscious delicacy
in the mother, had been perhaps somewhat singularly answered
by a like nicety of sentiment in the child; for children of a
naturally refined organization, and a gentle nurture, sometimes
possess a wonderful, and often undreamed of, daintiness of propriety,
and thoughtfulness, and forbearance, in matters esteemed
a little subtile even by their elders, aud self-elected betters. The
little Pierre never disclosed to his mother that he had, through
another person, become aware of her thoughts concerning Aunt
Dorothea's portrait; he seemed to possess an intuitive knowledge
of the circumstance, that from the difference of their relationship
to his father, and for other minute reasons, he could in
some things, with the greater propriety, be more inquisitive
concerning him, with his aunt, than with his mother, especially
touching the matter of the chair-portrait. And Aunt Dorothea's
reasons accounting for his mother's distaste, long continued
satisfactory, or at least not unsufficiently explanatory.
And when the portrait arrived at the Meadows, it so chanced
that his mother was abroad; and so Pierre silently hung it up
in his closet; and when after a day or two his mother returned,
he said nothing to her about its arrival, being still strangely
alive to that certain mild mystery which invested it, and whose
sacredness now he was fearful of violating, by provoking any
discussion with his mother about Aunt Dorothea's gift, or by
permitting himself to be improperly curious concerning the reasons
of his mother's private and self-reserved opinions of it.
But the first time—and it was not long after the arrival of the
portrait—that he knew of his mother's having entered his
what she should voluntarily say about the late addition to its
embellishments; but as she omitted all mention of any thing
of that sort, he unobtrusively scanned her countenance, to mark
whether any little clouding emotion might be discoverable there.
But he could discern none. And as all genuine delicacies are
by their nature accumulative; therefore this reverential, mutual,
but only tacit forbearance of the mother and son, ever
after continued uninvaded. And it was another sweet, and
sanctified, and sanctifying bond between them. For, whatever
some lovers may sometimes say, love does not always abhor a
secret, as nature is said to abhor a vacuum. Love is built
upon secrets, as lovely Venice upon invisible and incorruptible
piles in the sea. Love's secrets, being mysteries, ever pertain to
the transcendent and the infinite; and so they are as airy
bridges, by which our further shadows pass over into the regions
of the golden mists and exhalations; whence all poetical,
lovely thoughts are engendered, and drop into us, as though
pearls should drop from rainbows.
As time went on, the chasteness and pure virginity of this
mutual reservation, only served to dress the portrait in sweeter,
because still more mysterious attractions; and to fling, as it
were, fresh fennel and rosemary around the revered memory of
the father. Though, indeed, as previously recounted, Pierre
now and then loved to present to himself for some fanciful
solution the penultimate secret of the portrait, in so far, as that
involved his mother's distaste; yet the cunning analysis in which
such a mental procedure would involve him, never voluntarily
transgressed that sacred limit, where his mother's peculiar repugnance
began to shade off into ambiguous considerations,
touching any unknown possibilities in the character and early
life of the original. Not, that he had altogether forbidden his
fancy to range in such fields of speculation; but all such imaginings
father, which, in his soul, was based upon the known acknowledged
facts of his father's life.
| Pierre, or, The ambiguities | |