The picture was so marvellously beautiful, so strange, so
imaginative, that I was filled with deep sorrow at the thought that
its lines and colors would have to dissolve like mist.
"What is the matter?" asked Wanda.
I pointed to the mirror.
"Ah, that is really beautiful," she exclaimed, "too bad one can't
capture the moment and make it permanent."
"And why not?" I asked. "Would not any artist, even the most famous,
be proud if you gave him leave to paint you and make you immortal by
means of his brush.
"The very thought that this extra-ordinary beauty is to be lost to
the world," I continued still watching her enthusiastically, "is
horrible--all this glorious facial expression, this mysterious eye
with its green fires, this demonic hair, this magnificence of body.
The idea fills me with a horror of death, of annihilation. But the
hand of an artist shall snatch you from this. You shall not like the
rest of us disappear absolutely and forever, without leaving a trace
of your having been. Your picture must live, even when you yourself
have long fallen to dust; your beauty must triumph beyond death!"
Wanda smiled.
"Too bad, that present-day Italy hasn't a Titian or Raphael," she
said, "but, perhaps, love will make amends for genius, who knows; our
little German might do?" She pondered.
"Yes, he shall paint you, and I will see to it that the god of love
mixes his colors.
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