Yet I made another essay immediately, and each new picture was clearer,
and approached more nearly to the type, but was by no means like the reality.
More and more I accustomed myself, in a dreamy sort of way, to draw lines with my brush, to fill in surfaces.
My sketches grew out of a few strokes of the brush, out of the unconscious.
At last one day I finished a face, almost unconsciously, which made a stronger appeal to me than the former ones.
It was not the face of the girl, for I had long since given up the idea of trying to paint my Beatrice to the life.
It was something else, something unreal, and yet not of less value for me on that account.
It looked more like the head of a youth than of a girl.
The hair was not blond like that of my pretty girl, but brown with a tinge of red;
the chin was strong and firm, but the mouth was red as a blossom.
The features were rigid, like a mask, but impressive and full of secret life.
As I sat before the finished sketch, it made a peculiar impression on me.
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