The Story of Porcelain Part 7

It was not, however, much fun to be lying there in bed during those fine spring days. From his window he could see the blue waters of the lake between the aisles of straight pines. It was a glorious world if one could only be abroad in it. Even the glimpse he had of it from his bed was beautiful. But to lie still and look out upon this alluring scene was not a satisfying role for an active boy. In spite of the wood-carving, the books, the writing; even despite the time Franz could spare to entertain him the hours dragged pitifully.

Furthermore, now that the severed bone had begun to knit he felt restless and uncomfortable.

Hence when on the afternoon of the third day he awoke from an uneasy doze to find his father standing beside him it was a joyful surprise.

"Father!" he cried.

"Right here," came gruffly from the Doctor. "Glad to have your old dad home again?"

"Glad? Well, I guess!"

"I am glad to see you again too, son. I've thought of you a hundred times. How did you get on?"

"All right, sir. Franz took fine care of me, and I found lots of things to do," answered Theo bravely. "But it is much nicer when you are here than when you're not."

His father smiled.

"You are a plucky youngster," he said huskily. "No matter how silly and childish your accident was you certainly have shown yourself a man since. Look! Here comes Mr. Croyden to see you. He has brought you a fine four-pounder, the record trout of the catch."

Theo beamed.

During the time the fishermen had been gone he had sadly missed the delicacy of fresh fish.

"Eating this trout will be the next best thing to pulling it in, Theo," said Mr. Croyden. "I only wish you might have had that pleasure, too."

"I shall be pretty glad to eat the trout, sir," Theo declared promptly.

"We shall let Franz get to work cooking it then, right away, so to have it ready for your dinner," Dr. Swift said, pa.s.sing out with the fish in his hand.

After the Doctor had gone Theo looked up into Mr. Croyden's face.

"I suppose you are dreadfully tired after your tramp," he remarked.

"I? Oh, no," was the instant answer. "Why?"

"I--I--don't know," faltered Theo. "I just wondered."

"Wondered what?"

"Whether after dinner you would be too tired to come in and talk to me a little while?"

"No, indeed. I'd be glad to come," responded Mr. Croyden. "I'll come and tell you all about our trip."

"If you don't mind I'd rather you'd leave that to Dad, and instead tell me some more about china-making," Theo said naively.

Mr. Croyden seemed vastly amused at the remark.

"Bless my soul! What a boy you are," he said. "Of course I am perfectly willing to talk to you on anything you like. Would you rather hear about china than anything else?"

"Yes, sir, just now I should," came vigorously from Theo.

"All righty, china it shall be, then! But I am surprised that you should be so much interested in it. How came you to be so eager to learn about pottery and porcelain?"

"I guess because you make it all so much like a story book," answered Theo frankly. "How did you happen to know so much about it, Mr.

Croyden?"

"Why, it chances to be my business, son," Mr. Croyden replied. "In Trenton, New Jersey, where I live, we make quant.i.ties of earthenware and porcelain; more of it than anywhere else in the United States. That is the way I earn my money to come on fishing trips."

"Oh, I see! Then of course it is no wonder that you know all about it!" cried Theo.

"I know some things, but not all," was Mr. Croyden's answer. "However, since you like to hear about it I am ready and glad to tell you what I can. We will have a session on French pottery to-night, if you say so; there are some things I want you to know before we take up the making of the English wares."

"Whatever you say!" exclaimed Theo.

"Very well. I'll be back after dinner, and unless your father wants you for something else we'll have a nice evening together before your bedtime."

Mr. Croyden was as good as his word.

Theo had just finished his share of the big trout when into his room came the china merchant.

"Your father and Manuel are busy icing some fish to ship home, so here I am," he affirmed.

After dragging a steamer chair up to Theo's bedside and stretching himself comfortably in it the elder man began:

"Most of the pottery of the seventeenth century was an outgrowth of the Italian Renaissance when all the arts such as painting, wood-carving, sculpture, literature, gla.s.s and pottery-making were revived. In France the attempt to imitate Italian Faenza ware gave rise to the word _faience_, a term applied to French porcelains made both from hard and soft paste. French potters at Nevers, spurred on by Dutch and Chinese products, began to turn out a type of pottery not unlike Delft, except that the method of coloring it was reversed, and instead of having blue figures on a white ground it had white figures on a background of blue. This innovation, however, was not an entirely new variety of pottery. It still remained for France to invent its own peculiar kind of ware, and this it soon did. Nevertheless you must not make the mistake of thinking that these first attempts were very far reaching, for on the contrary they were very limited. They are significant only because they are the beginnings of that wonderful art of porcelain-making which later the French carried to an amazing degree of perfection."

There was a moment's delay in the story while Mr. Croyden rearranged more comfortably the pillows behind Theo's head.

"Is that better?" he asked of the boy.

"Lots better, thank you," said Theo gratefully.

"All right, son. Then we'll go on. Two of the most important of these beginnings are the Henri Deux ware, as it is called; and the enamel work of Bernard Palissy."

"We read about Palissy in school," put in Theo.

"I am glad to hear that, for he was one of the three men whose names have come down to us as being most vitally connected with pottery and porcelain-making. But before we talk of him I am going to tell you just a little about the Henri Deux ware, sometimes known as Faience d'Orion. Very few pieces of it now remain; but for perfection of workmanship and beauty of quality it has never been approached. Just who made it we do not know; nor do we know anything of the conditions under which it was manufactured. Only about fifty pieces of it are in existence--half of them in England and half in France; and it is from these, and from vague historic hints, that we have welded together the rather uncertain tale that I am now to tell you."

A smile of antic.i.p.ation pa.s.sed over Theo's face.

"Long ago there lived in France a wealthy woman named Helene d'Hengest, who was deeply interested in all the arts, and who owned a beautiful home known as Chateau d'Orion. Here she had a library, a rather rare possession in those days, and a librarian called Bernard. Now many persons think that it was this Bernard who was the maker of the now famous Henri Deux ware, or Faience d'Orion."

"Why should they think that?" questioned Theo.

"Well, there are several excellent reasons," Mr. Croyden replied. "One is that the ware shows traces of a book-binding tool. Book-binders, you know, use many small instruments to decorate or tool their leather. This faience was a ware of natural cream-colored clay, and upon it was tooled a flat design the hollows of which were filled in with darker clays that were afterward covered with a lead glaze. Infinite care and pains had evidently been expended upon each piece of the ware, such pains that it must have taken much time to complete even a single article. No manufacturer could have afforded to do this, and therefore the inference had been drawn that the pottery was made purely for pleasure by some one who had an abundance of leisure. Perhaps this very Bernard, the librarian, who may have become interested in the art as a recreation, and done the work in his idle hours."

"What a funny thing to do as a pastime!" exclaimed Theo.

"No stranger than that now many persons take up metal work, wood-carving, or other of the so-called arts and crafts for diversion."