The picture upon which I gazed, was the portrait of a lady in the dawn of youth. I felt certain that it was, or had been taken as the resemblance of some earthly object. She was young and very beautiful. She could not have numbered more than twenty summers when that was painted. She sat, inclining forward, as if to speak. Her finger pressed to her rosy lip, as though she said ‘beware.’ Her robe hung in light folds over the full bust, and was confined at the waist by a scarf. A circlet of gems clasped the small aristocratic head, and sparkled on the auburn hair. The hair, put smooth back from the face, was gathered in two long braids behind, which fell below the waist. The complexion, white as alabaster. The eyes, so deeply beautifully blue. All these attributes combined to form an expression of angelic purity and sweetness, such as I had never seen expressed in any human countenance before.
“Of whom is this a portrait, Signor?” I inquired of the Italian, interrupting his conversation with Morton.
Carrara’s black eyes rested sadly upon the picture a moment, then turned suddenly away.
“It is the portrait of an Austrian lady. A Viennese,” he answered abruptly.
“Is she living still?” I asked.
“No, she has been dead many years.”
“Is it not flattered? was she as beautiful as this?”
“She was far more beautiful than I have been able to portray her.”
“How long since it was painted?”
“More than twenty years ago.”