“If you expect a revolver to make as much noise as a home-made rifle that nearly kicks its owner off into space, all I can say is, your expectation exceeds your intellect.”
But I don’t think he followed me in this line of delicate sarcasm, because he merely said, “I shot at a crow.”
“Did you?” I said; “I hope you apologised.”
Then that cook brought some wood for the fire; but he crept cautiously to look through the doorway and see if I was quiet before he ventured in. I saw him, the villain. I am not a wild beast. Am I a wild beast?
He came in again, and he tried English this time. “Sahib, I want tea?” he said, in a trembling voice. The maniac wished to inquire whether I wanted tea. I thought, “Shall I?—shall I chill his marrow, and make his flesh creep?” but I didn’t. I merely said “Yes.”
My cold disappeared after a day or two, and I made several sketches of the infant Prince in my note-book. When the little tunic and busby were finished, I borrowed them, and brought them home with me. I buttoned up the coat and stuffed it with cotton wool, arranging the sleeves with care, and placed the little fur busby in a suitable position. Then I set to work to paint them. When I had finished, I painted in the little man’s face from my sketch-book. It was an odd-looking little painting—a man’s costume and a baby’s face.
I took it to the Durbar and showed it to His Highness. He seemed pleased with it, and declared the eyes were exactly like his own. I said they were:—in fact, I intended they should be when I was painting them. I did another portrait of the little Prince some years afterwards that was much more interesting; I must speak of that later.
His Highness, the Amîr, could not, of course, spare time to give me a sitting every day, so that often a considerable interval elapsed between the sittings. However, the portrait gradually progressed towards completion.
As a painting, technically speaking, it might have been better: but as a likeness it was not at all bad.