Thompson's, he who had painted the portrait of my father used in the
editions of "Twice-Told Tales." The room was very large, but not very
high, and it had a great deal of shadow in it. I did not think he
painted as well as Raphael; but I delighted in the smell of his
pigments, which were intensely fragrant. I thought his still moist
canvas upon the easel, of a little Peter and a well-groomed angel,
infinitely amusing. It was history scrubbed, and rather reduced in
size. I was half appalled, half fascinated, by my temerity in having
such frivolous private opinions of a picture that my mother and father
felt the excellence of with reverence and praise. A minute portrait of
me was painted by Mr. Thompson; one for which I did not find it at all
amusing to sit, as I had to occupy a stiff chair (I think it was even
a high stool) without any of the family to keep me in heart, although
I had almost never been left with friends in that way, and although I
was by that time a perfect recluse in disposition. So I was under the
impression that I was being punished by the invisible powers, which I
was conscious of eminently deserving. The small painting shows this
idea of Purgatorial arrest by a clever touch here and there, without
depicting a frown or positive gloom. The patronizing demeanor of an
artist at work upon a portrait, which we all know so well,--the
inevitable effect of his faith in himself, the very breath of artistic
endeavor, without which he would lounge through life asking, "Of what
use is it to attempt?"--made me furious, in my naughty, secret mind.
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