Not lust was my aim, but purity; not happiness, but beauty and spirituality. This cult for Beatrice completely changed my life.
A precocious cynic but a short while before, I had now become a servant in the temple, whose aim it was to be a saint.
I not only renounced the evil life to which I had accustomed myself,
but I endeavored to change everything, to set myself a standard of purity, nobility and dignity,
which I even applied to eating and drinking, to my manner of speech and dress.
I began each morning to wash with cold water, to the use of which I had, in the beginning, to force myself.
I behaved with gravity and dignity, carried myself erect and acquired a slower and more dignified gait.
To an observer it might have seemed rather ludicrous, but to me it was the performance of a divine worship.
Of all the ways in which I sought to find expression for my new faith, one bore fruit.
I began to paint. To start with, the English picture of Beatrice I had in my possession did not bear a sufficient resemblance of Beatrice.
I wanted to try to paint her for myself. Full of new pleasure and hope I carried into my room—
I had recently been given a room to myself—beautiful paper, colors, and a paint-brush.
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