To Sit By My Father, And Administer To His
Wants, And To Meditate On Bianca In The Silence Of His Chamber, Was My
Constant Habit.
Sometimes I amused myself with my pencil in portraying
the image that was ever present to my imagination.
I transferred to
canvas every look and smile of hers that dwelt in my heart. I showed
them to my father in hopes of awakening an interest in his bosom for
the mere shadow of my love; but he was too far sunk in intellect to
take any more than a child-like notice of them.
When I received a letter from Bianca it was a new source of solitary
luxury. Her letters, it is true, were less and less frequent, but they
were always full of assurances of unabated affection. They breathed not
the frank and innocent warmth with which she expressed herself in
conversation, but I accounted for it from the embarrassment which
inexperienced minds have often to express themselves upon paper.
Filippo assured me of her unaltered constancy. They both lamented in
the strongest terms our continued separation, though they did justice
to the filial feeling that kept me by my father's side.
Nearly eighteen months elapsed in this protracted exile. To me they
were so many ages. Ardent and impetuous by nature, I scarcely know how
I should have supported so long an absence, had I not felt assured that
the faith of Bianca was equal to my own. At length my father died.
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