It seemed to me a sort of picture of a god or of a sacred mask, half man, half woman, ageless,
the expression being at once dreamy and strong-willed, stiff and yet secretly alive.
This face seemed to have something to say to me, it belonged to me; its look was rather imperative, as if requiring something of me.
And there was a certain resemblance to someone or other, to whom I knew not.
The picture played an important rôle for a while, sharing my thoughts and my life.
I kept it concealed in a drawer, in order that one should not get possession of it and so be able to sneer at me.
But as soon as I found myself alone in my little room I took out the picture and communed with it.
Each evening I pinned it on to the wall over against my bed, and gazed at it until I dropped off to sleep.
In the morning it was the first object which met my gaze.
Just at that time I began again to dream a great deal, as I had constantly done when a child.
It seemed to me that for years I had had no more dreams.
Now they came again, quite a new kind of pictures, and often and often the painted image appeared therein,
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