among the
colonnades and terraces of the magnificent Doria Gardens, I thought it
impossible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa.

A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty purse was
exhausted, and for the first time in my life I experienced the sordid
distress of penury. I had never known the want of money, and had never
adverted to the possibility of such an evil. I was ignorant of the
world and all its ways; and when first the idea of destitution came
over my mind its effect was withering. I was wandering pensively
through the streets which no longer delighted my eyes, when chance led
my stops into the magnificent church of the Annunciata.

A celebrated painter of the day was at that moment superintending the
placing of one of his pictures over an altar. The proficiency which I
had acquired in his art during my residence in the convent had made me
an enthusiastic amateur. I was struck, at the first glance, with the
painting. It was the face of a Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such a
divine expression of maternal tenderness! I lost for the moment all
recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped my hands
together, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. The painter perceived
my emotion. He was flattered and gratified by it. My air and manner
pleased him, and he accosted me. I felt too much the want of friendship
to repel the advances of a stranger, and there was something in this
one so benevolent and winning that in a moment he gained my confidence.

I told him my story and my situation, concealing only my name and rank.
He appeared strongly interested by my recital; invited me to his house,
and from that time I became his favorite pupil. He thought he perceived
in me extraordinary talents for the art, and his encomiums awakened all
my ardor. What a blissful period of my existence was it that I passed
beneath his roof. Another being seemed created within me, or rather,
all that was amiable and excellent was drawn out. I was as recluse as
ever I had been at the convent, but how different was my seclusion. My
time was spent in storing my mind with lofty and poetical ideas; in
meditating on all that was striking and noble in history or fiction; in
studying and tracing all that was sublime and beautiful in nature. I
was always a visionary, imaginative being, but now my reveries and
imaginings all elevated me to rapture.

I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had opened