Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/347

 836 ONCE  A WEEK. [Ootomr 22, 1859.

“Oh, yes,”  said  the  child. “I have them  on Sunday. The good  curt  gave  me  some,  and  after mass I draw  all  day  long. I am so  happy  then, without any  pigs  to  look  after.”

“It seems  to  me  that  you  have  that  pleasure now,” said  the  other,  “for  I see  none  anywhere.”

“Those stupid,  tiresome  beasts,  they  are  always running away  and,  brandishing  his  stick,  he rushed  into  the  little  grove  near,  and  was  soon heard shouting,  gesticulating,  screaming  to  his pigs; but it  was  some  time  before  he  oould  bring them all  back; and  in  the  meanwhile  the  stranger stood examining  the  scratches  in  the  sand.

We may  as  well  mention  here  who  this  gentle- man was who  took  so  much  interest  in  the  little swineherd’s sketches,  and  inform  our  readers  that he was  a prince  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  in Poland. More fortunate  than  the  greater  part  of his  countrymen,  the  father  of  Prince  Ponasky  had sold his  great  estates  in  Poland  before  its  dismem- berment by its  powerful  neighbours,  and  had settled in  France,  in  whose  rich  and  luxurious capital he  could  freely  indulge  his  taste  for  the refined and  beautiful. His son  had  grown  up  a perfect  enthusiast  of  Art — one  of  those  men  one finds often  in  the  higher  circles,  who,  without  any positive genius  for  the  art  they  devote  themselves to, have  yet  the  greatest  passion  for  everything connected with  it. There are  some  patrons  of art  who  take  a kindly  interest  in  those  who minister to  their  pleasures;  and  one  of  the noblest of  these  was  Prince  Ponasky; his  purse, his time,  his  sympathy,  were  ever  at  the  service of the  struggling  artist; to  have  genius  was  a sure  passport  to  his  favour; and  many,  now famous, bless  the  kind  hand  that  helped,  and the wise  head  that  counselled  their  inexperienced youth.

When the  boy  returned  hot  and  breathless  from his chase,  the  Prince  was  still  contemplating  the sand drawings.

“My friend,”  he  said,  “there  is  a great  fault here. You have  made  the  off1- wheel  about  three times larger  than  the  near  one.”

“Yes,” said  the  boy,  “that  puzzles  me. AH my drawings  of  carts  and  carriages  look  wrong, and I cannot  tell  why. Both the  wheels  are  really the same  size,  and  yet  if  I make  both  the  same length, one  looks  larger  than  the  other.”

“I will tell  you,”  said  the  Prince. And taking the stick  from  the  child’s  hand,  he  explained  to him  some  of  the  first  principles  of  perspective. The quick,  intelligent  eyes  of  his  auditor  followed eagerly every  word  and  movement,  and  at  the conclusion he  clapped  his  hands  with  joy,  and exclaiming, “I  see  now  how  to  draw  the  wheels,” he moved  to  an  untrodden  bit  of  sand,  and  drew the carriage  with  the  most  perfect  correctness.

The Prince  was  delighted  with  his  quick  com- prehension, and asked  the  boy  to  show  him  some of his  Sunday  sketches  on  paper.

“Well,” he  replied,  “I have  not  got  any  here, but if  you  will  come  to-morrow  I shall  be  here. This is  the  best  bit  of  ground  for  drawing  on  for three miles  round,  and  the  view  is  so  beautiful down there.”

“But, my  little  friend,  to-morrow  I shall  be many  leagues  from  here,  on  my  road  to  Paris.”

“Then if  you  will  stay  here  and  take  care  of the  pigs,  I will  go  and  fetch  them  for  you.”

“Thank you,”  replied  the  other,  drily; “I think the  best  plan  would  be  for  you  to  tell  me where  your  mother  lives,  and  then  I could  go  and look at  your  drawings  there. I don’t exactly  see where the  pigs  are  at  this  moment.”

“Oh!” said  the  little  swineherd,  with  a gesture of despair,  “I never  can  draw  for  two  minutes together in  peace. I must go  after  them  again.”

“Tell me  your  mother’s  name  first.”

“Kaysar, sir — La  Mere  Kaysar. She lives  in the  first  cottage  after  the  church. You see  the tower there  above  the  trees.”

“And your  name  is — - —”

“Heinrich; I am  the  youngest  but  two,  and there are  ten  of  us  altogether.”

“Well, adieu  my  little  friend,  perhaps  we  may meet again  soon — don’t  forget  what  I have  taught you.”

“O! there is  no  danger  of  that,  sir.  I shall praotise it  as  soon  as  ever  those  horrible  pigs  give me a moment’s  rest.”

Prince Panasky  pursued  his  way  to  the  top  of the  hill,  where  his  carriage  was  waiting  for  him. He got  in,  and  told  the  postilion  to  leave  the  high- road, proceed to  the  little  village  on  the  left,  and stop at  the  cottage  next  the  church.

The valet  had  been  duly  explaining  to  the postilion whilst  they  waited,  that  his  master  was  an eccentric  foreigner,  crazed  on  the  subject  of  artists and paintings. So the  Prince  was  obeyed  without more astonishment  than  was  conveyed  by  an  ex- pressive shrug of  the  postilion's  shoulders  to  the valet, and  replied  to  by  him  with  a significant  shake of the  head.

At the  door  of  la  Mfere  Kaysar  the  carriage stopped and  the  Prince  entered. The good  woman, who was  washing,  was  filled  with  astonishment  and terror at  seeing  so  grand  an  equipage  stop  at  her door. She thought  some  misfortune  must  have happened, and  immediately  began  to  think  of  her sons. Her relief  was  great  when  she  found  that this fine  gentleman  had  only  come  to  look  at Heinrich’s  useless  scraps  of  paper.

“You shall  see  them,  and  welcome,  sir,”  she said; “I wish  you  could  persuade  Heinrich  to  turn his hand  to  something  useful — no  one  will  employ him for  anything  but  pig-keeping,  and  even  for that bis  master  begins  to  say  he  is  too  lazy.”

The Prince  smiled  to  himself  as  he  thought  of the  uncontrolled  liberty  the  pigs  seemed  to  enjoy under Heinrich’s  care — but  said  nothing,  and  began to examine  the  drawings. They were  sketches  of every  imaginable  object  that  came  under  his notice: his mother,  brothers,  and  sisters  were represented in  all  kinds  of  attitudes; the  old  water- mill; the picturesque  church  porch,  with  groups passing in  to  hear  mass; his  companions; his  dog; even his  special  tormentors,  the  pigs,  had  their place in  this  gallery  of  art,  where  the  backs  of  the drawings had  other  sketches  upon  them  — paper being far  too  valuable  a commodity  to  serve  only once. There were,  of  course,  innumerable  faults; but with  them  all  a breadth  and  freedom,  a quick- ness in catching  likenesses,  and  power  of  giving  its distinctive character  to  everything  he  attempted, that to  the  Prince’s  experienced  eye  evinced  a very