I made ready my palette, porcelain bowls, glass and pencils.
The fine water colors in little tubes which I had bought captivated me.
There was a bright chromic green which I think I can see yet as it flashed out for the first time from the little white tube.
I began with caution. To paint a face was difficult; I wished first of all to try something else.
I painted ornaments, flowers, and small landscapes from imagination, a tree near a chapel, a Roman bridge with cypresses.
I often lost myself completely in this pastime, I was as happy as a child with a box of paints.
At last I began to paint Beatrice. The first few attempts were abortive, and I threw them away.
The more I tried to conjure up in my mind the face of the girl, whom I met from time to time in the street,
the less I seemed able to transfer my impressions to paper.
Finally I gave up the idea, and began simply to paint a face according to the guidance of my imagination,
a face which gradually grew out of the one already begun, as if by itself, at the mercy of color and brush.
The result was a face I had dreamed of, and I was not ill pleased with it.
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