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IV
I OCCUPIED in those days a fairly large attic with two
windows which looked on the new harbour, the bay and
the rocky heights of the southern suburbs. Before the
windows, on the roof, I had managed to create a garden
of tiny dimensions. Bengal roses, azaleas and geraniums
provided me in their turn with flowers for the secret cult
of my Madonna with the child. It had become a daily
habit with me to pull down the blinds towards the even-
ing, arrange my flower-pots in a semicircle, and place the
picture of the Baroness, with the lamplight full on it,
amongst them. She was represented on this portrait as
a young mother, with somewhat severe, but deliciously
pure features, her delicate head crowned with a wealth of
golden hair. She wore a light dress which reached up
to her chin and was finished off with a pleated frill ; her
little daughter, dressed in white, was standing on a table
by the side of her, gazing at the beholder with pensive
eyes. How many letters "to my friends" had I not
written before this portrait and sent off on the following
morning addressed to the Baron ! These letters were at
that time the only channel into which I could pour my
literary aspirations, and my inmost soul was laid bare in
them.
To open a career for the erratic, artistic soul of the
Baroness, I had tried to encourage her to seek an outlet
for her poetic imagination in literary work. I had pro-
vided her with the masterpieces of all literatures, had
taught her the first principles of literary composition by
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