Among these was one entrusted
to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a convent
for her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for the
picture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous
palaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon the
bay, a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of
glory round her as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. She was but
sixteen years of age--and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like
a mere vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down
and worshipped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and
painters, when they would express the _beau ideal_ that haunts their
minds with shapes of indescribable perfection.
I was permitted to sketch her countenance in various positions, and I
Fondly protracted the study that was undoing me. The more I gazed on
her the more I became enamoured; there was something almost painful in
my intense admiration. I was but nineteen years of age; shy, diffident,
and inexperienced. I was treated with attention and encouragement, for
my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favor for me; and I am
inclined to think that there was something in my air and manner that
inspired interest and respect. Still the kindness with which I was
treated could not dispel the embarrassment into which my own
imagination threw me when in presence of this lovely being.
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