Tizianello Part 2

Beatrice kissed him and whispered in his ear, "And I also will make your portrait, a fine portrait, exactly like you, not inanimate, but alive."

CHAPTER VII.

THE love of Pippo and Beatrice could at first be compared to a spring escaping from the ground. It now resembled a stream trickling away, little by little, and cutting out a bed for itself in the sand.

Had Pippo been of n.o.ble birth, he would certainly have married Beatrice. For the better, they became acquainted, the more they loved each other. But, although the Vecelli were a good family from Cador, in Frioul, such a union was not possible. Not only would Beatrice's nearest relatives have opposed it, but all in Venice who bore patrician names would have been indignant. Those who most willingly tolerated intrigues of love, and who found nothing to blame in the fact that a n.o.ble lady was the mistress of a painter, would never have forgiven that same woman, had she married her lover. Such were the ideas of this epoch, which perhaps were less objectionable than our own.

The small house was furnished. Pippo kept his word and went there every day. To say that he worked would be too much, but he made pretense of so doing, or rather he thought he was working. Beatrice, on her side, went farther than her promise, for she always arrived first. The portrait was sketched; it progressed slowly, but was on the easel, and although it was hardly touched most of the time, at least it acted as a witness, to encourage love or maybe to excuse idleness.

Every morning Beatrice sent her negress to her lover with a bouquet, so that he should become accustomed to rising early. "A painter should be awake at dawn,"

said she; "the light of the sun is his life and the true element of his art, since he can do nothing without it."

This admonition appeared just, in Pippo's eyes, but to follow it was difficult.

He would place the bouquet in the gla.s.s of sweetened water which he had on his table and fall asleep again. When, on his way to the little house, he pa.s.sed under the windows of the Comtesse Orsini, it seemed to him as if his money was uneasy in his pocket. One day, when out for a walk, he met Ser Vespasiano, who asked why they no longer saw him.

"I have taken an oath never to hold a dice-box again," he answered, "and never to touch a card. But, since you are here, let us play heads or tails with what money we have with us."

Ser Vespasiano, who, although an old man, and a lawyer, was none the less pa.s.sionately fond of play, and took good care not to refuse this proposal. He threw a piastre in the air, lost thirty sequins, and went away little satisfied.

"What a pity," thought Pippo, "not to play just now! I am sure that Beatrice's purse would continue to bring me luck, and that in eight days I should regain what I have lost during the last two years."

But it was with great pleasure that he obeyed his mistress. His little studio appeared alike most gay and most peaceful. It was as if he was in a new world, of which, nevertheless, he had a faint remembrance, for his canvas and his easel recalled the days of his infancy. Things that were once familiar soon become so again, and this facility, added to the remembrance, endear them to us without our knowing why. When Pippo took his palette one fine morning and squeezed out his paints on it; when he saw them arranged in order and ready to mix under the guidance of his hand, he seemed to hear behind him the hoa.r.s.e voice of his father crying, as of old, "Now then, lazybones, what are you dreaming of? Get bravely to work!" At this thought, he turned his head, but instead of the severe countenance of t.i.tian, he saw Beatrice, her arms and bosom bare, her forehead crowned with pearls, preparing to pose for him, and laughingly remarking, "When you are pleased to be ready, my lord."

You must not think he was indifferent to the advice she gave him, and of this she was not sparing. Sometimes she would speak to him of the Venetian masters and of the glorious place they held in the schools of Italy. Sometimes, after having reminded him to what a height art had risen, she would point out its decadence. She was only too correct on this subject, for Venice was then doing what Florence had done before. She was losing not only her glory, but the respect for glory. Michelangelo and t.i.tian had both lived almost a century.

After having taught their country art, they had struggled against disorder as long as was possible for human force; but these two old columns had, at length, crumbled. In instructing obscure amateurs in the crude, the masters, hardly buried, were forgotten.

Brescia and Cremona opened new schools, and proclaimed them superior to the old ones. Even in Venice, the son of one of t.i.tian's pupils, usurping the nickname given to Pippo, like him, had himself styled Tizianello, and was filling the patriarchal church with works of the worst taste.

Although Pippo did not trouble about his country's shame, he could not help being annoyed at this scandal. When an inferior painting was praised before him, or when he found a poor picture in some church in the midst of his father's masterpieces, he felt the same displeasure that a patrician might have experienced on seeing the name of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d inscribed in the book of gold.

Beatrice understood this dislike, and women have all, in a more or less degree, the instinct of Delilah. They know when to fathom the secret of Samson's hair.

While respecting sacred names, Beatrice took care, from time to time, to praise the work of some mediocre artist. It was not easy for her to contradict herself in this way, but she very cleverly gave this false praise an appearance of truth. In this way, she often aroused Pippo's bad temper, and she noticed that on these occasions he set to work with extraordinary vivacity. He would have the boldness of a master and impatience inspired him. But his frivolous character soon resumed its sway and he would suddenly throw his paint brush down.

"Let us drink a gla.s.s of Cyprian wine," he would say, "and speak no more of this nonsense."

Such an inconstant spirit might, perhaps, have discouraged any one else but Beatrice. But, since we find in history stories of the most lasting hate, we must not be astonished if love can inspire perseverance. Beatrice was persuaded that the saying, "Habit can do anything," was true, and this is whence she obtained this conviction. She had seen her father, a man extremely wealthy, and in poor health, undertake the most arduous tasks and the driest calculations in his old age, in order to add a few sequins to his immense fortune. She had often begged him to spare himself, but he had always given her the same answer, that it was a habit of his since his childhood, which had become necessary to him and which he would keep as long as he lived. Taught by this example, Beatrice did not wish to forejudge anything so long as Pippo did not bind himself to regular work, and she told herself that the love of glory is a n.o.ble ambition which should be as strong as avarice.

In thinking thus, she was not mistaken. But the difficulty consisted in this, that to get Pippo into a good habit it was necessary to remove a bad one. Now there are noxious weeds which can be torn up with little effort, but gambling is not like one of these. Perhaps, even, it may be the only pa.s.sion that can resist love, for you may see men of ambition, libertines, and even men of religion, yield to a woman's wish, but rarely is this the case with gamblers, and the reason of this is easy to explain. As coined metal represents almost all pleasures, so does play carry with it almost all emotions. Each card, each throw of the dice, brings the loss or gain of a certain number of pieces of gold or silver, and each of these coins is the representative of an, as yet, unknown pleasure. So he who wins, feels a mult.i.tude of desires, and not only freely gives himself up to them, but tries to create new ones, having the certainty of being able to satisfy them. From this is derived the despair of he who loses, and suddenly finds himself incapable of playing, after having handled enormous sums. Such trials, often repeated, at the same time wound and exalt the spirit, throwing it into a kind of stupor. Ordinary sensations are too weak, they present themselves too slowly and too much in succession for the player, accustomed to concentrate his pa.s.sions, to take the smallest interest in them.

Happily for Pippo, his father had left him too rich for loss or gain to be able to exercise such a baleful influence over him. Idleness, rather than vice, had tempted him. Besides, he was too young for the harm to be irremediable: the very inconsistency of his tastes proved this. So it was not impossible for him to correct himself, so long as one knew how to carefully guide him. This necessity had not escaped the notice of Beatrice, and without thinking of her own reputation, she spent almost every day with her lover. On the other hand, so that habit should not engender satiety, she brought in play all the resources of feminine coquetry. Her hair, her dress, even her language, incessantly varied, and for fear that Pippo might become disgusted with her, she changed her gown every day. Pippo noticed these little stratagems, but he was not so foolish as to resent them; on the contrary, he did the same himself; he altered his humor and his moods as often as he changed his collar. But he had no need to study for this; nature looked after it and he sometimes laughingly remarked, "A gudgeon is a little fish, and a whim is a small pa.s.sion."

Living in this way and both fond of pleasure, our lovers understood each other perfectly. One thing alone troubled Beatrice. Every time she spoke to Pippo of the plans she was making for the future, he was satisfied to reply, "Let us begin with your portrait."

"I ask nothing better," she would answer, "and this has been settled a long time. But what do you think of doing after that? This portrait can not be publicly exhibited and, as soon as it is finished, we must think of something that will make you better known. Have you some subject in your mind? Will it be an historical or a church scene?"

When she asked him these questions, he always found means of having some distraction that stopped him from hearing, as for example, picking up his handkerchief, arranging a b.u.t.ton on his coat, or any other detail of a similar kind. She had begun by thinking that it might be an artist's mystery, and that he did not wish to divulge his plans. But no one was less secretive than he, nor more confiding, at least with his mistress, for there can be no love without trust. "Is it possible he will deceive me," Beatrice asked herself; "is this willingness but play, and has he no intention of keeping his word?"

When this doubt came to her mind, she a.s.sumed a grave and almost haughty look.

"I have your promise," she would say, "you bound yourself for a year, and we shall see whether you are honorable." But before she could finish this sentence, Pippo would tenderly embrace her. "Let us begin by painting your portrait," he would repeat. After which he knew how to set to work to make her speak on other subjects.

One may imagine she was anxious to see this portrait finished. At the end of six weeks, it was done. When she posed for the last sitting, Beatrice was so happy that she could not remain in position. She went to and fro from the painting to her armchair and she cried out both with admiration and with pleasure. Pippo worked slowly and, from time to time, shook his head. Suddenly he frowned, and bruskly pa.s.sed over the picture the rag that served him to wipe his brushes on.

At once, Beatrice ran over to him and saw that he had effaced the mouth and the eyes. She was in such consternation at this that she was unable to restrain her tears. But Pippo quietly replaced the colors in his box. "A look and a smile are two difficult things to reproduce," said he; "one must be inspired to dare to paint them. I do not feel my hand sure enough and do not even know if it ever will be."

So the portrait remained disfigured in this way and, every time Beatrice looked at this head without mouth and without eyes, she felt her anxiety redouble.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE reader may have noticed that Pippo was fond of Greek wines. Now, although the wines of the East do not tend to animate after a good dinner, he chattered willingly during dessert. Beatrice never missed bringing the conversation round to painting, but as soon as this was mentioned, one of two things would happen.

Either Pippo remained silent, and in this case he had a certain smile on his lips that Beatrice did not like, or he spoke of the arts with strange indifference and disdain. Odd thoughts, especially, occurred to him the greater part of the time during this conversation.

"There is a fine picture to be painted," said he. "It represents the Campo-Vaccino at Rome, at the setting of the sun. The horizon is vast, the square deserted. In the foreground are children playing in some ruins; in the background you see a young man pa.s.sing enveloped in his mantle. His face is pale, his delicate features are wasted by suffering. On seeing him, you must be able to guess that he is about to die. In one hand he holds a palette and some paint-brushes, with the other he leans on a young and robust woman, who turns her head laughing. To explain this scene, the day on which this happened must be added at the bottom-Good Friday in the year 1520."

Beatrice easily understood the meaning of this enigma. It was on Good Friday in 1520 that Raphael died in Rome, and, although it had been attempted to deny the rumors that had been circulated, it was certain that this great man had expired in the arms of his mistress. So the picture that Pippo had in view would have represented Raphael but a few moments before his end, and, in fact, such a scene, treated simply by a true artist, might have been beautiful. But Beatrice knew what to think of this imaginary project and read in her lover's eyes that which he meant her to understand.

While every one in Italy agreed in lamenting this death, Pippo, on the contrary, was accustomed to praise it, and he often remarked, that in spite of all Raphael's genius, his death was more beautiful than his life. This thought was revolting to Beatrice, although she could not help smiling at it. It was to say that love is worth more than glory, and if such an idea can be censured by a woman, at least it can not offend her. If Pippo had chosen some other example, Beatrice might perhaps have been of his opinion.

"But why," she said, "oppose to each other two things which sympathize so well together? Love and glory are brother and sister. Why do you wish to tear them apart?"

"One can never do two things well at the same time," added Pippo. "You would not advise a business man to write poetry at the same time as his bills; nor a poet to measure cloth while he was thinking of a rhyme. Why then do you wish to make me paint when I am in love?"

Beatrice did not well know what to answer, for she dare not say that love was no occupation.

"Do you, then, wish to die like Raphael?" she demanded. "And, if you wish it, why not begin to act as he did?"

"On the contrary," answered Pippo, "it is from fear of dying like him that I do not wish to act as he did. Either Raphael, being a painter, was wrong in falling in love, or being in love was wrong to start to paint. That is why he died when thirty-seven years old, in a glorious way it is true, but there is no good way of dying. If he had produced only fifty masterpieces less, it would have been a blow for the Pope, who would have been obliged to have his chapels decorated by another. But La Fornarine would have received fifty more kisses, and Raphael would have escaped the smell of oil colors which is so injurious to the health."

"Would you then make of me a Fornarine?" cried Beatrice at this. "If you care neither for glory nor your life, do you wish me to bury you?"

"In truth, no," answered Pippo, carrying his gla.s.s to his lips: "if I could change you, I would make of you a Staphyle." [4]

[4 A nymph with whom Bacchus was in love. He changed her into a bunch of grapes.]

Despite the careless tone he affected, Pippo, in thus expressing himself, was not jesting as much as one may think. Beneath his jests, he even hid a reasonable opinion, and here is what was at the bottom of his thoughts.

In the history of art, mention has often been made of the ease with which great painters have executed their works, and some have been cited who knew how to mingle with their work disorder and even idleness. But there is no greater mistake than that. It is not impossible that a practised painter, sure of his hand and reputation, may succeed in producing a beautiful sketch in the midst of distractions and pleasures. Vinci sometimes painted, it is said, holding his lyre in one hand and his brush in the other, but the celebrated portrait of La Joconde remained on his easel for four years. In spite of rare feats of strength, which in the result are always too highly praised, it is certain that that which is veritably beautiful is the work of time and meditation and that there is no true genius without patience.

Pippo was convinced of this rule and his father's example had confirmed him in his opinion. In fact, there never lived a painter so bold as t.i.tian, unless it be his pupil Rubens; but if t.i.tian's hand was quick, his mind was patient.

During the ninety-nine years of his life, he was constantly occupied with his art. At the beginning, he had commenced by painting with a minute timidity and a sharpness which made his works resemble those Gothic pictures of Albert Durer.

It was only after much work that he dared obey his genius and allow his brush to run away with him. Even then, he sometimes was sorry for it, and Michelangelo once said, on seeing one of t.i.tian's canvases, that it was a pity the principles of drawing were neglected in Venice.

Now at the moment when what I am telling you was happening, a deplorable ease, which is always the first sign of the decay of art, was reigning in Venice.

Pippo, upheld by the name he bore, with a little boldness and the studies he had made, could easily and quickly have made himself ill.u.s.trious, but that was precisely what he did not wish. He would have looked upon it as shameful to profit by the ignorance of the vulgar. He told himself, with reason, that the son of an architect should not demolish that which his father had built, and that, if the son of t.i.tian became a painter, it was his duty to oppose himself to the decay of painting.

But to undertake such a task, it was, without doubt, necessary for him to devote his entire life to it. Would he succeed? It was uncertain. A single man has little strength when a whole century is fighting against him. He is carried away by the mult.i.tude like a swimmer by a whirlpool. What then would happen? Pippo did not disguise anything from himself: he knew that courage would fail him sooner or later and that his old pleasures would once more carry him away, so that he ran the chance of making a useless sacrifice, whether this sacrifice be complete or only partial. And what would it benefit him? He was young, rich, healthy and he had a beautiful mistress. To live happily without any one reproaching him, it was necessary but to allow the sun to rise and set. Should he give up so much for a doubtful glory, which would probably escape him?

It was after having carefully thought it over that Pippo had decided to a.s.sume an indifference, which, little by little, became natural. "If I study for another twenty years," he would say, "and attempt to imitate my father, I shall be singing to the deaf. If strength fails me, I shall dishonor my name."

And, with his usual good spirits, he concluded by crying out, "To the Devil with painting! Life is too short."

While he was disputing with Beatrice, the portrait still remained unfinished.

Pippo, by chance, entered the Convent of the Servites one day. On a scaffolding erected in a chapel, he perceived the son of Marco Vecellio, even he, who I have already informed you, had himself nicknamed Tizianello. This young man had no reasonable excuse for using this name, unless he was a distant relative of t.i.tian and that his Christian name was t.i.to, which he had altered to t.i.tian, and from t.i.tian to Tizianello. On this account, the idlers of Venice believed he had inherited the genius of the great painter and were in ecstasies before his pictures. Pippo had never disturbed himself about this ridiculous imposition, but at this moment, perhaps because he was annoyed at finding himself before this person, or perhaps because he was thinking of his amour propre more seriously than was usual, he approached the scaffolding which was held in place by small beams badly stayed. He kicked one of these beams and caused it to fall.

Luckily the scaffolding did not give way at the same time, but it swayed so much that the so-called Tizianello at first staggered, as though drunk, and finished by losing his balance and falling among his colors which streaked him all over in the most curious manner.

You may imagine his anger on getting up. He immediately descended from his scaffold and advanced toward Pippo, threatening him. A priest threw himself between them to separate them at the moment when they were about to draw their swords in the sacred place. The frightened worshipers fled, making the sign of the cross, while the curious hurried to the scene. t.i.to cried out loudly that a man had attempted to a.s.sa.s.sinate him and that he demanded justice for the crime.

The beam, still out of place, was witness to it. The a.s.sistants began to murmur, and one of them, bolder than the rest, tried to seize Pippo by the collar.

Pippo, who had acted only out of thoughtlessness and who looked on laughing, seeing himself on the point of being carried to prison and hearing himself called an a.s.sa.s.sin, in his turn, became angry. After having roughly pushed aside him who wished to arrest him, he rushed at t.i.to.

"It is you," he cried, seizing him, "it is you who should be seized by the collar and taken to Saint Mark's Square, there to be hung as a robber. Do you know to whom you are speaking, you thief of names? I am Pomponio Vecellio, son of t.i.tian. Just now, I kicked your worm-eaten scaffolding: but, if my father had been in my place, you may be sure that, to teach you to call yourself Tizianello, he would have shaken you so well in your tree that you would have fallen like a rotten apple. But he would not have stopped at that. To treat you as you deserve, he would have taken you by the ear, insolent schoolboy, and brought you back to the studio from which you escaped before knowing how to draw a head. By what right do you defile the walls of this convent and sign your miserable frescos in my name? Go and learn anatomy and copy the nude for ten years, as I did with my father, and we will then see who you are and if you have a signature. But, till then, be careful not to use that which belongs to me, or I will throw you in the ca.n.a.l, to baptize you once for all!"

With these words, Pippo left the church. As soon as the crowd heard his name it immediately calmed down. The people made way for him to pa.s.s and followed him with curiosity. He rushed off to the little house, where he found Beatrice waiting for him. Without wasting time to tell what had happened, he seized his palette, and, still moved with anger, he started working at the portrait.

In less than an hour, he finished it. At the same time, he made great alterations. First, he removed several details which he found too minute; he spread out the drapery with more liberality, retouched the background and accessories, which form a very important part of Venetian pictures; he then came to the mouth and the eyes, and succeeded, with a few strokes of his brush, in giving them a perfect expression. Her glance was sweet and proud; the lips, above which appeared a light down, were half open; the teeth shone like pearls and words seemed about to come forth.

"You shall not be named the Crowned Venus," said he when all was finished, "but Venus in Love."

One may guess the joy of Beatrice.While Pippo was working, she had hardly dared to breathe. She kissed him and thanked him a hundred times and told him that in future she no longer wished to call him Tizianello, but t.i.tian. During the remainder of the day, she spoke of nothing but the innumerable points of beauty she discovered every moment in her portrait. Not only did she regret that it could not be exhibited, but she was ready to ask for it to be. They pa.s.sed the evening at the Quintaville and never had the two lovers been so gay and so happy. Pippo himself was childishly happy. It was only as late in the evening as possible, after a thousand protestations of love, that Beatrice decided to leave him for a few hours.

She did not sleep that night. The most laughable ideas and the sweetest hopes agitated her. She already saw her dreams realized, her lover praised and envied by all Italy and Venice owing him a new glory. The next day, as usual, she was first at the rendezvous and she began, while waiting for Pippo, by looking at her beloved portrait. The background of this portrait was a country scene, and in the foreground was a rock. On this rock, Beatrice noticed some lines traced with cinnabar. She anxiously bent over to read them. In very fine Gothic letters the following sonnet was written: In these poor lines behold the richest Queen Since Beauty made her so: the rose upon Her cheek is redder than an April dawn And sweeter than e'er flamed in bushes green Or lit the path of Love. No Sweet-sixteen Is half so bravely timid. World, pa.s.s on!

She will remain, these youthful nations gone The hallowed Vision of this ravished scene.

Know this, O world of careless lovers, know That I, awake or sleeping, had e'er dreamed Of reputation and of babbling fame; Yet for my Model's kiss could but forego Ambition's goal, a prize that heaven seemed, And so to win a heart did lose a name!

Whatever effort Beatrice made after this, she never persuaded her lover to work again. He was inflexible to all her prayers, and, when she pressed him too hotly, he recited his sonnet. Thus he remained till his death, faithful to his idleness: and Beatrice, it is said, was so to his love. They lived long as man and wife, and it is to be regretted that the pride of the Loredanos, wounded by this public liaison, destroyed the portrait of Beatrice, just as chance had destroyed Tizianello's first picture.[5]

[5 It is due to the researches of a celebrated amateur, M. Doglioni, that we know that this painting existed.]