I rescued the poor creatures,
cherished them, watched them as I would have done some precious work of
art, some lovely fragment of fresco discovered in a mouldering cloister.
In a month--as if to deepen and sanctify the sadness and sweetness of it
all--the poor little child died. When she felt that he was going she
held him up to me for ten minutes, and I made that sketch. You saw a
feverish haste in it, I suppose; I wanted to spare the poor little mortal
the pain of his position. After that I doubly valued the mother. She is
the simplest, sweetest, most natural creature that ever bloomed in this
brave old land of Italy. She lives in the memory of her child, in her
gratitude for the scanty kindness I have been able to show her, and in
her simple religion! She is not even conscious of her beauty; my
admiration has never made her vain. Heaven knows that I have made no
secret of it. You must have observed the singular transparency of her
expression, the lovely modesty of her glance. And was there ever such a
truly virginal brow, such a natural classic elegance in the wave of the
hair and the arch of the forehead? I have studied her; I may say I know
her.
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