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. It elevated
her into something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exquisite
for earthly use; too delicate and exalted for human attainment. As I
sat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my eyes occasionally riveted
on her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me giddy. My
heart alternately gushed with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now I
became more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain
dormant at the bottom of my soul. You who are born in a more temperate
climate and under a cooler sky, have little idea of the violence of
passion in our southern bosoms.

A few days finished my task; Bianca returned to her convent, but her
image remained indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt on my
imagination; it became my pervading idea of beauty. It had an effect
even upon my pencil; I became noted for my felicity in depicting female
loveliness; it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. I
soothed, and yet fed my fancy, by introducing her in all the
productions of my master. I have stood with delight in one of the
chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol the seraphic
beauty of a saint which I had painted; I have seen them bow down in