Tizianello, by Alfred de Musset

The Naked Word electronic edition of... 
Tizianello 
by Alfred de Musset 
Done into English by M. Raoul Pellissier, 1905 



CHAPTER I 
IN the month of February, in the year 1580, a young man was crossing, at break 
of day, the Piazzetta, in Venice. His clothes were in disorder: his hat, on 
which was a fine scarlet plume waving in the breeze, was pushed down over his 
forehead. He was walking rapidly toward the Riva degli Schiavoni, his sword and 
mantle dragging in the dust, while, with a disdainful air, he cautiously stepped 
over the forms of the fishermen scattered on the ground. Having reached the 
Ponte della Paglia, he stopped and looked about him. The moon was setting behind 
the Giudecca, and the aurora of the morning was gilding the Ducal Palace. A 
thick smoke and a brilliant light from time to time escaped from a neighboring 
palace. Beams, stones, enormous blocks of marble, and other debris encumbered 
the Canal of Prisons. In the midst of the waters a fire had just destroyed a 
patrician's home. Flying sparks rose upward every moment, and by this brilliant 
light an armed soldier was to be seen mounting guard over the ruins. 
But our young man seemed struck neither by this spectacle of destruction nor by 
the beauty of a sky tinged with the most delicate colors. For a time he looked 
in the distance, as if to distract his dazzled eyes. But the light of day seemed 
to have a disagreeable influence on him, for he folded his mantle round him and 
hastened on his way. He soon came to a stop at the door of a palace, on which he 
knocked. A valet, holding a candle in his hand, opened immediately. At the 
moment of entering he turned, and, casting a look at the sky, cried: 
"By Bacchus, my carnival is costing me dearly!" This young man was named 
Pomponio Filippo Vecellio. He was Titian's second son, a child full of spirits 
and imagination, whose father cherished fond hopes for him, but whose passion 
for play led him continually into riotous ways. It was scarce four years since 
the great painter and his eldest son Orazio had died, almost at the same time, 
and young Pippo, in four years, had already squandered the greater part of the 
immense fortune that this double inheritance had brought him. Instead of 
cultivating his natural abilities and sustaining the glory of his name, he spent 
his days in sleeping and his nights in playing at the house of a certain 
Comtesse, or at least so-called Comtesse, Orsini, who made the ruination of the 
young Venetians her business. There assembled at her house every night a 
numerous company of nobles and courtiers. There they supped and played, and as 
their supper cost them nothing, it goes without saying, that the dice took care 
to indemnify the mistress of the house. While the sequins were piling up in 
heaps, Cyprus wine was flowing, and the victims were ogling their hostess and, 
doubly dazed, left behind them both their money and their reason. 
It was from this dangerous spot that we have just seen emerge the hero of this 
tale, and he had suffered that night more than one loss. Besides having emptied 
his pockets at dice, the only picture he had ever completed, a picture that the 
connoisseurs voted excellent, had just been destroyed in the fire at the Dolfino 
Palace. It was an historical subject, treated with a spirit and a boldness of 
touch almost worthy of Titian himself. Sold to a wealthy senator, this canvas 
had suffered the same lot as a great number of valuable works. The imprudence of 
a valet had reduced this wealth to ashes. But that was Pippo's smallest trouble. 
He thought only of the bad luck which had followed him with such unusual 
obstinacy and of the dice which had caused his loss. 
On returning home, his first act was to remove the cloth that covered his table 
and to count the money remaining in his drawer: then, being naturally of a gay 
and heedless character, when he had undressed, he sat at the window in his 
dressing-gown. Seeing that it was broad daylight, he wondered if he should close 
the shutters and go to bed or wake up like the rest of the world. It was a long 
time since he had seen the sun in the quarter whence it rises, and he found the 
sky more pleasing than usual. Before deciding to get up or to sleep, and still 
struggling against slumber, he took his chocolate on the balcony. As soon as his 
eyes closed, he could see a table, agitated hands and pale figures, and could 
hear the sound of the dice-boxes. "What fatal luck!" he murmured. "It is 
scarcely credible for one to lose with fifteen." And he saw his usual adversary, 
the old Vespasiano Memmo, throwing eighteen and taking possession of the gold 
that lay piled on the table. He quickly opened his eyes, to remove this bad 
dream, and watched the young girls walking on the quay. He seemed to see afar 
off a masked woman. He was astonished, although a carnival was taking place, for 
poor people are not masked, and it was strange that a Venetian lady should be 
out alone and on foot at such an hour.[1] But he saw that what he had taken for 
a mask was the face of a negress. He saw her soon from a closer point of view 
and noticed that she was possessed of tolerable good looks. She walked very 
fast, and a gust of wind driving her dress, streaked with flowers, tight against 
her hips, showed the outline of a graceful figure. Pippo leaned on the balcony 
and saw, not without surprise, that the negress was knocking at his door. 
[1 In bygone times, the Venetians were out and masked as long as the carnival 
lasted.] 
The porter was slow in opening. 
"What do you want?" cried the young man. "Is it I that you want, brunette? My 
name is Vecellio, and, as they are keeping you waiting, I will come and open the 
door myself." 
The negress raised her head. 
"Is your name Pomponio Vecellio?" 
"Yes, or Pippo, whichever you wish." 
"You are Titian's son?" 
"At your service. What can I do for you?" 
After casting a rapid and curious glance at Pippo, the negress stepped back a 
pace or two and cleverly threw up on the balcony a small box done up in paper, 
then rushed off precipitately, occasionally turning round. Pippo picked up the 
box, opened it and found a delicate purse wrapped up in cotton. He suspected 
with reason that under the cotton there might be a note explaining this 
adventure. The note was there, all right, but was as mysterious as the rest, for 
it contained but these words: 
"Do not spend too lavishly what I enclose. When you go out put to my charge a 
gold piece; that is sufficient for one day. And if in the evening there is 
anything left, however little it may be, you can find a beggar who will thank 
you for it." 
When the young man had turned the box a hundred different ways, examined the 
purse, and again looked at the quay, at least he saw clearly that he could 
discover no more. "I must admit," he thought, "that this gift is peculiar, but 
is cruelly ill-timed. The advice I am given is good, but it is too late to tell 
any one he is drowning, when he is at the bottom of the Adriatic. Who the devil 
can have sent me this?" 
Pippo had easily recognized that the negress was a servant. He began to rack his 
brains as to who was the woman, or the friend, likely to send him this present, 
and as his modesty did not blind him, he persuaded himself that it was more 
likely to be a woman than one of his friends. The purse was of velvet, 
embroidered with gold. It seemed to him that it was too delicately made to have 
come from any store. So he reviewed in his mind the most beautiful women in 
Venice, then those who were the opposite. But here he stopped and wondered what 
he could do to find out who had sent him the purse. Thereupon, he dreamed most 
deep and sweet dreams: more than once he thought he had guessed. His heart 
throbbed while he was doing his best to recognize the writing. There was a 
Princess of Bologna who formed her capital letters in this way, and a beautiful 
lady of Brescia whose writing was very similar. 
Nothing is more disagreeable than an unpleasant idea suddenly gliding in among 
dreams of a like nature. It is just as if, while walking in a field of flowers, 
one stepped on a serpent. And it was just what Pippo felt when he suddenly 
remembered a certain Monna Bianchina, who latterly had particularly worried him. 
With this woman he had had an adventure at a masked ball, and although she was 
pretty, he felt no love whatever for her. Monna Bianchina, on the contrary, had 
suddenly fallen in love with him, and she had even forced herself to perceive 
love where, in reality, there was but politeness. She attached herself to him, 
wrote often and overwhelmed him with tender reproaches. But, on leaving her one 
day, he had sworn never to return, and he kept his word scrupulously. So he 
began to think that Monna Bianchina might well have made him a purse and sent it 
to him. This suspicion destroyed his gaiety and the illusions which buoyed him 
up. The more he reflected, the more likely he thought this supposition. Out of 
temper, he closed his window and decided to go to bed. 
But he was unable to sleep. In spite of all the probabilities, it was impossible 
for him to give up a doubt that flattered his vanity. He continued involuntarily 
to dream. He wished to forget the purse and to think no more about it: he wanted 
to forget the very existence of Monna Bianchina. Nevertheless he had drawn the 
curtains and had turned his face toward the wall so as not to see daylight. 
Suddenly he leaped out of bed and summoned his servants. He had suddenly thought 
of something, simple enough, that had hitherto escaped him. Monna Bianchina was 
far from rich. She had but one servant and this servant was not a negress, but a 
large girl from Chioja. How had she on this occasion been able to obtain this 
unknown messenger whom Pippo had never seen in Venice? "Blessed be your black 
skin," he cried, "and the African sun that colored it." And without waiting 
longer, he called for his doublet and ordered his gondola. 
CHAPTER II 
HE had resolved to call upon the Signora Dorothee, wife of Pasqualigo, the 
advocate. This lady, respected on account of her years, was one of the richest 
and most intelligent ladies of the republic. Besides, she was Pippo's godmother, 
and as there was no one of any distinction in Venice whom she did not know, he 
hoped she might help to fathom the mystery that surrounded him. Still, he 
thought it too early as yet to present himself before his patroness, and while 
waiting, strolled about under the Procuraties. 
As luck willed it, whom should he meet there but Monna Bianchina, who was 
purchasing some cloth. He entered the store and without exactly knowing why, 
after a few commonplace remarks, he said to her, "Monna Bianchina, you sent me 
this morning a nice present, and gave me good advice. I tender you my most 
humble thanks." 
Speaking in this tone of certainty, he perhaps expected at once to rid himself 
of the doubt that had tormented him. But Monna Bianchina was too cunning to 
exhibit surprise before having discovered if it was to her interest to show any. 
Although she had really sent nothing to the young man, she saw that here was the 
means of putting him off the scent. It is true, she answered that she did not 
know of what he was speaking, but she took good care, in saying this, to laugh 
so slyly and blush so modestly that Pippo remained convinced, despite 
appearances, that the purse was from her. "And since when," he asked her, "have 
you had that pretty negress at your command?" 
Disconcerted by this question, and not knowing how to answer, Monna Bianchina 
hesitated a moment, and then gave a hearty laugh and bruskly left him. Alone and 
disappointed Pippo gave up the visit he had planned, He went home, threw the 
purse in a corner, and no longer thought about it. 
But some days later it happened that he lost a large sum in gambling and gave 
his note. As he went out to pay his debt, it seemed convenient for him to make 
use of this purse, which was large and looked well in his belt. So he took it, 
and that very night he played again and lost still more. 
"Are you going on?" asked Ser Vespasiano, the old notary of the Chancellor's 
office, when Pippo had no more money. 
"No," answered he, "I do not wish to play any more, on my note of hand." 
"But I will lend you whatever you want," cried the Comtesse Orsini. 
"And I also," said Ser Vespasiano. 
"And I also," repeated one of the Comtesse's numerous nieces in a soft and 
sonorous voice; "but open your purse, Signor Vecellio, there is still another 
sequin inside." 
Pippo smiled, and at the bottom of his purse found, in fact, a sequin, which he 
had forgotten. "So be it," said he, "let us have another throw, but I will risk 
no more." He took the dice-box, won, and, doubling the stakes, continued to 
play. In short, at the end of an hour he had made up his loss of the night 
before and that of the evening. "Are you going on?" in his turn he asked Ser 
Vespasiano, who no longer had anything in front of him. 
"No! For I must be a big fool to allow myself to be drained by a man who would 
risk but one sequin. Cursed be that purse! No doubt it is bewitched." 
The notary left the room furious. Pippo was preparing to follow him, when the 
niece, who had advised him, laughingly remarked, "Since it is to me you owe your 
luck, make me a present of the sequin which helped you to gain it." 
This sequin had a small mark on it by which it could be recognized, Pippo looked 
for it, found it and he was already handing it over to the pretty niece, when he 
suddenly cried: 
"No, my beautiful one, you can not have it. But to show you I am not greedy, 
here are ten others which I beg you to accept. As for this one, I wish to follow 
some advice lately given me and I present it to Providence." 
So speaking, he threw the sequin out of the window. "Is it possible," he said to 
himself, on returning home, "that the purse of Monna Bianchina brings me luck? 
It would be a singular turn of fortune if a thing, which in itself is 
disagreeable to me, had a pleasing influence over me." And, in fact, it soon 
appeared to him that every time he made use of this purse, he won. When he 
placed a gold piece in it he could not help a certain superstitious feeling, 
and, in spite of himself, he sometimes reflected on the truth contained in the 
words he had found at the bottom of the box. "A sequin is a sequin," he would 
say to himself, "and there are plenty of people who do not possess one for each 
day." This thought made him less imprudent and led him to somewhat curtail his 
expenses. 
Unfortunately, Monna Bianchina had not forgotten her meeting with Pippo under 
the Procuraties. To confirm the mistake she had led him to believe in, from time 
to time she sent him a bouquet or some small nothing, accompanied by a short 
note. I have already stated that he was very tired of these attentions, to which 
he had made up his mind not to reply. 
So it happened that Monna Bianchina, driven to desperation by this coldness, 
attempted a daring move, which greatly displeased the young man. She went alone 
to his house during his absence, bribed the servant, and succeeded in hiding in 
his room. On returning, he found her there, and felt himself obliged to tell her 
plainly that he had no love for her and that he begged her to leave him in 
peace. 
La Bianchina, who, as I have said, was pretty, gave way to terrible anger. She 
overwhelmed Pippo with reproaches, but this time no longer tender ones. She told 
him he had deceived her in speaking of love, that she thought herself deeply 
injured, and finally, that she would be revenged. Pippo did not listen to all 
these threats, without himself being irritated. To show her that he was not 
afraid, he forced her, there and then, to take back a bouquet she had sent him 
that morning; and, as he happened to lay hands on the purse, he added: "Here, 
take this, too. This purse has brought me luck, but understand by this that I 
want nothing from you." 
Hardly had he given way to this moment of anger, than he regretted it. Monna 
Bianchina took good care not to enlighten him regarding the lie she had told 
him. She was full of rage, but also of dissimulation. She took the purse and 
left, fully decided to make Pippo repent of the way in which he had treated her. 

That evening he played as usual and lost. The following days brought no better 
luck. Ser Vespasiano always had the better dice and won considerable sums from 
him. He revolted against his luck and his superstition, became obstinate and 
lost again. At last, one day on leaving the Comtesse Orsini, he could not help 
crying on the stairs, "May God forgive me! I believe that old fool was right, 
and that my purse was bewitched, for I have not had a fair throw since the day I 
returned it to La Bianchina." 
At this moment he perceived floating before him a dress embroidered with 
flowers, from which there appeared two active and slender legs; it was the 
mysterious negress. He doubled his pace, accosted her, and asked her who she was 
and to whom she belonged. 
"Who knows?" answered the African, with a teasing laugh. 
"You, I suppose. Are you not Monna Bianchina's servant?" 
"No. Who is Monna Bianchina?" 
"Well, by God! She it is who told you the other day to bring me that box which 
you so cleverly threw on to my balcony." 
"Oh! Your Excellency, I do not think so." 
"I know it; do not try to excuse yourself. It is she herself who told me." 
"If she told you..." answered the negress in a hesitating manner. She shrugged 
her shoulders and thought for a moment. Then, giving Pippo a light tap on the 
cheek with her fan and running away, she cried: 
"My fine gentleman, you have been tricked." The streets in Venice form a 
labyrinth so complicated, they cross in so many different ways, in such a 
various and unexpected way, that Pippo, after having let the young girl escape, 
could not find her again. He felt very embarrassed, for he had made two 
mistakes, the first in giving his purse to Bianchina, the second in not keeping 
the negress. Chancing to enter the town without being aware of it he went toward 
the palace of the Signora Dorothee, his godmother. He was sorry he had not made 
her the visit he had planned some days before. He was accustomed to consult her 
on everything that interested him and rarely had recourse to her without 
learning something. 
He found her alone in the garden, and after having kissed her hand, remarked: 
"My dear godmother, think of the foolishness of which I have just been capable. 
Not long ago, I received a purse..." But hardly had he said these words, when 
the Signora Dorothee began to laugh, "Well," said she, "is not the purse pretty? 
Do you find the golden flowers look well on the red velvet?" 
"What!" cried the young man, "is it possible you know of this?" 
At this moment, several senators entered the garden. The venerable lady rose to 
receive them and made no answer to the questions that Pippo, in his 
astonishment, continued to ask her. 
CHAPTER III 
WHEN the senators had left, the Signora Dorothee, in spite of her godson's 
prayers and importunity, absolutely refused to say more. She was annoyed that a 
sudden moment of mirth had made her acknowledge that she knew the secret of an 
adventure with which she wished to have nothing to do. Pippo still insisted. 
"My dear child," said she, "all I can say is that it is true that I might be 
rendering you a service by giving you the name of the person who embroidered 
that purse for you, for she is assuredly one of the most noble and beautiful 
ladies in Venice. Let this be sufficient. In spite of my wish to oblige you, I 
must be silent. I will not betray a secret which I alone possess and which I 
could not tell you, unless requested to, for I could then honorably do so." 
"Honorably, my dear godmother? But can you think that in confiding to me 
only..." 
"I understand," answered the old lady. And as, despite her dignity, she could 
not help a little sarcasm, she added: "Since you sometimes write poetry, why not 
make this the subject of your verses?" 
Seeing that he could find out nothing, Pippo put an end to his questions. But 
his curiosity, as one may think, was excited to no small degree. He stayed to 
dinner with the Pasqualigo, unable to make up his mind to leave his godmother 
and hoping that his fair unknown might possibly call that night. But he saw only 
senators, magistrates, and the most important men of the republic. 
At sunset, the young man separated from the rest of the company and went and sat 
down in a little grove. He thought of what he must do and determined on two 
things: to make La Bianchina give up his purse, and to follow the advice that 
the Signora Dorothee had laughingly given him, that is to say, to write a poem 
on his adventure. He also resolved to give this poem, when finished, to his 
godmother, who would no doubt show it to his fair unknown. Not wishing to delay 
any longer, he at once put into execution his dual project. 
After having arranged his doublet and carefully placed his hat on his head, he 
first examined himself in a mirror to see if he looked well, for his first 
thought had been to again deceive La Bianchina by fictitious protestations of 
love and to persuade her by kindness. But he soon gave up this idea, reflecting 
that in this way he would only bring to life the woman's passion and make 
further trouble for himself. He took the opposite course and hastily rushed to 
her house, as if he were furious. He prepared to create a scene and so well to 
intimidate her that she should henceforth leave him alone. 
Monna Bianchina was one of those blonde Venetians with black eyes, whose 
resentment has always been looked upon as dangerous. Since he had so misused 
her, Pippo had not received a single message from her. She was, no doubt, 
preparing in silence the vengeance of which she had spoken. It was therefore 
necessary to strike a decisive blow, in default of increasing the harm done. She 
was about to go out when the young man arrived. He stopped her on the staircase 
and forced her to go back to her room. 
"Unhappy woman!" he cried. "What have you done? You have destroyed all my hopes 
and your vengeance is accomplished!" 
"Good God! What has happened to you?" asked La Bianchina, thunderstruck. 
"Can you ask? Where is that purse that you told me came from you? Do you still 
dare lie to me?" 
"What matters it if I have lied or not? I do not know where that purse has 
gone." 
"You will die or return it!" cried Pippo, rushing at her. And, with no respect 
for a new gown which the poor woman had just put on, he violently tore away the 
cloth that covered her breast and placed his dagger on her heart. 
La Bianchina thought her end had come and began to call for help, but Pippo 
choked her with his handkerchief, and without her being able to utter a sound, 
he forced her to return the purse, which happily she had kept. "You have caused 
trouble to a powerful family," he then told her. "You have forever troubled one 
of the most illustrious houses in Venice! Tremble! This redoubtable house 
watches you: neither you nor your husband will now take a single step without 
its being known. The Lords of the Night have inscribed your name in their book; 
think of the dungeons of the Ducal Palace! At the first word you say, that makes 
known the terrible secret that your malice has caused, your entire family 
disappears!" 
With these words he left, and every one knows that in Venice none more 
terrifying could be uttered. The pitiless and secret arrests of the Corte 
Maggiore spread so great a terror that those who thought themselves even 
suspected already looked upon themselves as dead. This was just what happened in 
the case of La Bianchina's husband, Ser Orio, whom she had told, in part, of the 
threat that Pippo had just made. It is true that she ignored the motives, and in 
fact Pippo himself ignored them, since all this was but a fable. But Ser Orio 
prudently thought it was not necessary to know why one had brought down upon 
oneself the wrath of the supreme court, and that the most important thing was to 
avoid it. He was not born in Venice. His parents lived on the mainland. So he 
embarked the next day with his wife and they were no longer spoken of. It was 
thus that Pippo found means of getting rid of La Bianchina, and of repaying her 
with interest for the injury she had done him. All her life she thought that a 
state secret was really connected with the purse, which she had wished to steal, 
and as in this strange event everything was a mystery to her, she could only 
conjecture. The parents of Ser Orio made this the subject of their particular 
conversation. Beginning with suppositions they finished by creating a plausible 
tale. "A great lady," said they, "had become enamored of Tizianello, that is to 
say, of Titian's son, who himself was in love with Monna Bianchina, and of 
course in vain. Now this great lady, who had herself embroidered a purse for 
Tizianello, was no other than the Doge's wife. Imagine her wrath on learning 
that Tizianello had sacrificed this gift of love to La Bianchina!" 
Such was the family tradition repeated with lowered voices in the little house 
of Ser Orio in Padua. 
Pleased with the success of his first enterprise, our hero now thought of 
attempting the second—to write a poem for his beautiful unknown. As the strange 
comedy in which he had taken part had moved him, in spite of himself, he 
commenced by rapidly writing one or two verses full of a certain rapture. Hope, 
love, mystery, all the impassioned expressions common to poets, rushed headlong 
through his mind. "But," thought he, "my godmother told me it was to do with one 
of the most noble and most beautiful ladies in Venice: I must therefore be 
proper and approach her with more respect." 
He effaced what he had written, and passing from one extreme to the other, he 
put together a few sonorous lines to which he tried hard to adapt, not without 
trouble, thoughts similar to his lady; that is to say, the most beautiful and 
noble he could think of. For hope too bold, he substituted a fearful doubt; in 
the place of mystery and love, he spoke of respect and gratitude. Unable to 
eulogize the charms of a woman he had never seen, he, as delicately as possible, 
made use of some vague terms which might apply to all faces. Shortly, after two 
hours of thought and work, he had written twelve passable verses, extremely 
harmonious and very significant. 
He made a careful copy on a fine sheet of parchment, and on the margins designed 
birds and flowers which he carefully colored. But directly his task was finished 
he read over his verses once more, and thereupon threw them out of the window 
into the canal, which passed close to the house. "Whatever am I doing?" he asked 
himself. "Of what use to follow up this adventure, if my conscience does not 
speak?" 
He took his mandolin and walked up and down the room, singing and playing an old 
tune composed for some of Petrarch's sonnets. At the end of a quarter of an hour 
he stopped; his heart was throbbing. He no longer thought of conventionalities, 
nor of the effect he might produce. The purse he had seized from La Bianchina, 
and which he had just brought back in triumph, was lying on the table. He looked 
at it and said to himself: "The woman who made that for me must love me and know 
how to love, too. Such a work is long and difficult; those light threads, those 
brilliant colors take time, and in working, she thought of me. In the few words 
that accompanied that purse there was a friend's advice and not one ambiguous 
word. It is a love challenge sent by a woman with a heart. If she thought of me 
but for one day, I must bravely take up the glove." 
He started again and in taking up his pen was more agitated by fear and hope 
than when he had risked the largest sums on the throw of the dice. Without 
reflecting and without stopping, he hastily wrote a sonnet, of which the 
following is about the meaning: 
  When first I conned the somber beauty of
  His song, I longed to tune my new-strung lyre
  And catch the wondrous harmony and fire—
  Whose endless fuel was brave Petrarch's love
  Of Laura sweet—that I might somehow prove
  Another Laura quite so loved. O, dire
  The effort! When did Boldness so aspire,
  Or tree-frog try to imitate the dove?

  Alas, I've Petrarch's message in my heart
  And am a moody lover day and night
  E'er breathing halting prose for poesy 
  And making putty ape the marbled art:
  O, sweet, sad master of a death delight
  For such fond sorrow I'd unhappy be!

Pippo then next day called at the house of the Signora Dorothee. As soon as he 
found himself alone with her, he placed his sonnet in the illustrious lady's 
lap, saying, "For your friend." The Signora at first appeared surprised, then 
she read the verses, and vowed she would never show them to any one. But Pippo 
only laughed, and as he was sure of the contrary, he left, assuring her he felt 
no uneasiness regarding the matter. 
CHAPTER IV 
NEVERTHELESS, he lived through the following week in great trouble, but this 
trouble was not without its charms. He remained at home and did not dare, so to 
speak, to stir up Fortune for fear of affecting it. In this he was wiser than 
one usually is, at his age, for he was only twenty-five, and the impatience of 
youth will often make us overreach ourselves in attempting too quickly to 
achieve our desires. Fortune wishes us to help ourselves and to know when the 
time is ripe: for, according to Napoleon's saying, she is a woman. But, for this 
very reason, she wishes to appear to grant that which is snatched from her, and 
she must be given time to open her hand. 
It was on the ninth day, toward evening, that the capricious goddess knocked at 
the young man's door, and not for nothing, as you shall see. He went down and 
opened the door himself. The negress was on the step and held in her hand a 
rose, which she held to Pippo's lips. 
"Kiss this flower," she said. "It carries a kiss from my mistress. Can she come 
and see you in safety?" 
"It would be very imprudent," answered Pippo, "if she came in daylight. My 
servants could not help seeing her. Is it possible for her to go out in the 
evening?" 
"No. Who would dare to in her place? She can neither go out in the evening, nor 
allow you to call on her." 
"Then she must consent to go elsewhere, to some spot I will mention." 
"No, she wishes to come here. See if you can not arrange it." 
Pippo reflected for a few moments. "Can your mistress rise early?" he asked the 
negress. 
"At the same hour as the sun." 
"Well, listen. I generally get up very late, consequently every one sleeps to a 
late hour. If your mistress can come at daybreak I will await her, and she can 
reach here without being seen by a soul. As regards her leaving later on, I will 
look after that—that is, if she can stay with me till evening." 
"She will do it. Will to-morrow be convenient?" 
"To-morrow at daybreak," said Pippo. He slipped a handful of sequins under the 
messenger's gorget; then, without asking any further questions, he went back to 
his room and shut himself in, resolved to watch till daylight. He at first 
undressed, so that it might be thought he was going to bed. When he was alone, 
he lit a good fire, put on an embroidered shirt, a scented collar, and a white 
velvet doublet with sleeves of Chinese satin. Then, when all was in order, he 
sat by the window and began to think of his adventure. 
He was not so favorably impressed as one might think by the promptitude with 
which his lady had accorded him an interview. You must not forget either that 
this story is taking place in the sixteenth century, and that love affairs were 
then much quicker arranged than now. From the most authentic testimony it 
appears certain that in these times what we should call indelicacy was classed 
as sincerity, and there are even grounds for thinking that what is to-day named 
virtue then appeared to be hypocrisy. However this may be, a woman in love with 
some fine fellow soon gave herself to him and he would for this reason have no 
worse an opinion of her. No one thought of blushing for that which appeared 
natural. In these times, a gentleman of the Court of France would carry on his 
hat, in the place of a plume, a silken stocking belonging to his mistress, and 
he would carelessly tell those who were surprised to see him in the Louvre in 
this attire, that it was the stocking of a woman who was making him die of love. 

Besides, such was Pippo's character that, had he been born in the present 
century, he would perhaps still have been of the same mind. Despite much 
dissipation and folly, if he was capable of sometimes lying to others, he never 
lied to himself. By this I mean that he liked things for what they were worth 
and not for appearances, and that, while fully capable of dissimulation, he 
never intrigued unless his desires were real. If he thought the letter he had 
received was but a whim, at least he did not think it the whim of a coquette: I 
told you just now the reasons, which were, the care and delicacy with which the 
purse had been embroidered and the time it must have taken to do it. 
While his spirit was endeavoring to anticipate the happiness in store for him, 
he thought of a Turkish marriage of which he had been told. When the Orientals 
take unto themselves a wife, they see the face of their fiancee only after 
marriage, and until then she remains veiled before him, as before every one 
else. They rely on what their parents have told them and marry in this way on 
what they have heard. The ceremony over, the young wife shows herself to her 
husband, who can then settle for himself whether the bargain was good or bad. As 
it is too late to draw back, there remains nothing to be done but to find it 
good, and these unions do not seem any more unhappy than others. 
Pippo found himself in just the same position as a Turkish fiance. It is true he 
did not expect to find a virgin in his unknown lady, but he easily consoled 
himself for this. Besides, there was this difference to his advantage, that it 
was not such a solemn tie he was about to contract. He could give himself up to 
the charms of expectation and surprise without troubling about the 
inconvenience, and this consideration seemed sufficient to make up for what 
might otherwise be lacking. So he imagined this night to be his bridal one, and 
it is not to be wondered at that at his age this thought caused him transports 
of joy. 
The first bridal night, in fact, to an active imagination must be one of the 
greatest possible pleasures, for it is preceded by no trouble. Philosophers 
insist, it is true, that trouble gives more relish to the pleasure she 
accompanies, but Pippo thought that a strong sauce did not make fish any the 
fresher. He liked easy possession, but he did not wish it gross, and unhappily 
it is an almost invariable law that exquisite pleasure is dearly bought. But the 
marriage night is an exception to this rule. It is a unique circumstance in 
life, which at the same time satisfies the two longings most dear to a man, 
indolence and lust. It brings to a young man's bedroom a woman crowned with 
flowers, who ignores love, and whose mother has attempted, since she was 
fifteen, to ennoble her soul and to adorn her spirit. To obtain a look from this 
beautiful creature you might perhaps have to beg for a whole year; nevertheless, 
to possess this treasure, the husband has only to open his arms. The mother is 
absent and God himself allows it. If on awakening from such a beautiful dream 
one finds one is not married, who would not wish to do it every night ? 
Pippo did not regret not having questioned the negress, for a servant, in such a 
case, can not help but praise her mistress were she even uglier than sin, and 
the two words let fall by the Signora Dorothee were sufficient. He would only 
have liked to know if she was a blonde or a brunette. To form an idea of a 
woman, when one knows she is beautiful, nothing is more important than to know 
the color of her hair. Pippo hesitated for a long time between the two colors; 
finally, so as to be at peace, he imagined her hair to be auburn. 
But he was then unable to determine the color of her eyes. Had she been a 
brunette he would have supposed them black—blue if she were blonde. He pictured 
them as blue, not that clear and undefined blue that is by turn both gray and 
greenish, but that azure blue like the sky, which in moments of passion takes a 
more somber hue and becomes as dark as a raven's wing. 
Hardly had these charming eyes appeared before him with a tender and profound 
look, than his imagination encircled them with a brow white as snow, and two 
cheeks as rosy as the rays of the sun on the summit of the Alps. Between these 
two cheeks, as soft as a peach, he imagined he saw a tapering nose like that of 
the ancient bust which has been called "Greek Love." Underneath, a vermilion 
mouth, neither too large nor too small, allowed a fresh and voluptuous breath to 
escape between two rows of pearls. The chin was well formed and slightly 
rounded, the expression frank but somewhat haughty. On a rather long neck, which 
was smooth and of an ivory white, this gracious and altogether sympathetic[2] 
head was softly poised like a flower on its stem. As for this beautiful image, 
created by imagination, it only lacked being real. "She is coming," thought 
Pippo, "she will be here when day arrives;" and what is not the least surprising 
part of his strange dream was that unknowingly he had just painted his future 
mistress's portrait exactly. 
[2 Simpatica—An Italian word which has no equivalent in our language, perhaps 
because our character does not possess the equivalent of what it expresses.] 
When the State Frigate, which guards the entrance to the Port, fired a gun to 
indicate six in the morning, Pippo saw that the light from his lamp was becoming 
reddish and that the glass in his window was of a light-blue tint. He 
immediately went to the casement. This time he no longer looked around him with 
half-closed eyes. Although he had not slept, he never felt more free and active. 
Dawn began to show itself, but Venice was still sleeping: that lazy home of 
pleasure does not awaken so early. At the hour when our shops are opening, the 
passers-by crossing the streets, carriages rolling, in Venice, the mist was 
playing on the deserted lagoon and covered the silent palaces as with a shroud. 
The wind hardly caused a ripple. A few sails appeared far off on the shores of 
Fusina, carrying the day's provisions to the "Queen of the Sea." Alone, at the 
summit of the sleeping city, the shining angel of the Campanile of Saint Mark's 
reared itself from out the twilight, and the sun's first rays gleamed on the 
golden wings. 
But the innumerable churches of Venice were loudly ringing the Angelus. The 
pigeons of the republic, warned by the sound of the bells, the strokes of which 
they can count with marvelous instinct, were swiftly crossing the flank of the 
Riva degli Schiavoni in flocks, attracted by the grain regularly scattered for 
them at that hour in the great square. The mist was lifting, little by little, 
and the sun appeared. A few fishermen were shaking their cloaks and began to 
clean their boats: one of them was singing, in a clear voice, a verse from a 
national air. A bass voice answered from the depths of a merchant ship; another, 
further off, joined in the chorus of the second verse. Soon the choir was 
organized, each did his part while still working, and a beautiful matutinal 
saluted the daylight. 
Pippo's house was situated on the bank of the Schiavoni, not far from the Nani 
Palace, at the junction of a small canal. At this instant, at the end of this 
obscure canal, shone the prow of a gondola. A solitary gondolier was on the 
stern, but the frail boat was cleaving the water with the rapidity of an arrow, 
and seemed to glide over the thick mirror in which its flat oar was dipped at 
regular intervals. At the moment when it passed under the bridge which separates 
the canal from the great lake, the gondola stopped. A masked woman, of a noble 
and slender figure, came out and went toward the quay. Pippo immediately went 
down and advanced toward her. "Is it you?" said he to her in a low voice. For 
all answer she took the hand he held out and followed him. Not a single domestic 
in the house was, as yet, awake. Without a word, on tiptoe they crossed the 
lower gallery where the porter slept. Having reached the young man's room, the 
lady sat on a sofa and remained thoughtful for a while. She removed her mask. 
Pippo understood then that the Signora Dorothee had not deceived him,and that he 
had before him, as she had said, one of the most beautiful women in Venice, and 
the heiress of two noble families, Beatrice Loredano, widow of the procurator 
Donato. 
CHAPTER V 
IT is impossible to paint in mere words the beauty of the first glances which 
Beatrice cast about her when she had uncovered her face. Although she had been a 
widow for eighteen months, she was but twenty-five, and if the step she had just 
taken has appeared bold to the reader, it was the first time in her life she had 
taken a similar one: for it is certain that until then she had loved no one but 
her husband. Besides, this proceeding had so worried her that, so as not to 
change her purpose on the way, she had been obliged to summon all her strength, 
and now her eyes were at the same time full of love, confusion, and courage. 
Pippo looked at her with such admiration that he was incapable of speaking. 
Whatever the circumstances, it is impossible to see a perfectly beautiful woman 
without astonishment and without respect. Pippo had often met Beatrice when out 
walking, and at private parties. He had himself praised her beauty a hundred 
times and had heard others do the same. She was a daughter of Pietro Loredano, 
member of the Council of Ten, and great-granddaughter of the famous Loredano, 
who took such an active part in the trial of Giacomo Foscari. The pride of this 
family was but too well known in Venice, and Beatrice passed, in the eyes of 
all, as having inherited the spirit of her ancestors. When still quite young, 
she had been married to the procurator Marco Donato, and the death of the latter 
had left her free and in possession of great wealth. The first nobles of the 
republic were her suitors, but she answered the efforts they made to please her 
with but disdainful indifference. In a word, her lofty and almost savage 
character had, so to speak, become a proverb. Pippo was therefore doubly 
surprised, for if, on the one side, he had never supposed that his mysterious 
conquest was Beatrice Donato, on the other, it seemed to him, on looking at her, 
that he saw her for the first time, so different was she from herself. Love, 
which can give charms to the most vulgar face, at this moment was showing her 
omnipotence in thus embellishing one of nature's masterpieces. 
After a few moments of silence, Pippo approached his lady and took her hand. He 
tried to picture to her his surprise and to thank her for his happiness, but she 
did not answer and did not appear to be listening. She remained immovable and 
seemed to distinguish nothing, as if all that surrounded her had been a dream. 
He spoke to her for a long time, without her making a single movement; 
nevertheless, he placed his arm round Beatrice's waist and sat down near her. 
"You sent me yesterday," said he to her, "a kiss on a rose. Allow me to return 
what I have received, on a more beautiful and fresher flower." 
While talking thus he kissed her on the lips. She made no effort to stop him, 
but her looks, which appeared to be wandering, suddenly became fixed on Pippo. 
She softly pushed him away, and shaking her head with a sadness full of grace, 
she said: 
"You will not love me, but will only treat me as a fancy. But I love you and I 
wish, first of all, to kneel before you." And in fact she did bend before him. 
Pippo vainly held her, begging her to rise, but she slipped through his arms and 
knelt on the floor. 
It is not usual nor even agreeable to see a woman take this humble position. 
Although it is a mark of love, it seems to exclusively belong to man. It is a 
penitent attitude that one can not see without emotion, and which has sometimes 
exacted, from a judge, pardon for the guilty. Pippo watched with growing 
surprise the admirable spectacle before him. If he had been seized with respect 
on seeing Beatrice, what must he have felt on seeing her at his feet? The widow 
of Donato, the daughter of Loredano, was on her knees. Her velvet robe, 
embroidered with silver flowers, covered the flagstones; her veil and her hair 
undone were trailing on the ground. In this beautiful frame there appeared her 
white shoulders and her joined hands, while her wet eyes were raised to Pippo. 
Moved to the depths of his heart, he retreated a step or two and felt 
intoxicated with pride. He was not noble and the patrician haughtiness that 
Beatrice threw off, passed like a flash of lightning through the young man's 
heart. 
But this flash lasted only for a second and rapidly vanished. Such a sight is 
bound to produce more than a feeling of vanity. When we bend over a limpid 
spring our image immediately appears and our approach brings to life a brother 
who, at the bottom of the water, comes before us. So, in the human soul, love 
calls love and gives it birth with a look. Pippo also fell on his knees. In this 
position, one before the other, they both remained for a few moments, exchanging 
their first kisses. 
If Beatrice was a daughter of the Loredanos, the gentle blood of her mother, 
Bianca Contarini, also flowed in her veins. Never was there a better creature in 
the world than this mother, who was also one of the beauties of Venice. Always 
happy and pleasant, thinking only of living in peace, but in times of war loving 
her country, Bianca seemed the elder sister of her daughters. She died young, 
and dead, was still beautiful. 
It was through her that Beatrice had learned to understand and to love art, and 
especially painting. Not that the young widow became very learned on this 
subject. She had been to Rome and to Florence and the masterpieces of 
Michelangelo had only inspired her with curiosity. As a Roman, she loved 
Raphael; but as a daughter of the Adriatic, she preferred Titian. While all 
around her every one was busy with the intrigues of the court or the affairs of 
the republic, she was bothered only about new pictures and as to what her 
favorite art would become after the death of old Vecellio. She had seen in the 
Dolfino Palace the picture of which I spoke at the beginning of this story, the 
only one that Tizianello had painted, and which had perished in a fire. After 
having admired this canvas, she had met Pippo at the Signora Dorothee's and had 
been seized with an irresistible love for him. 
Painting in the time of Julius II. and Leo X. was not a business as it is 
to-day. It was a religion for the artists, an enlightened taste for the great 
nobles, a glory for Italy, and a passion for women. When a pope left the Vatican 
to visit Buonarotti, the daughter of a Venetian noble could love Tizianello 
without shame. But Beatrice had conceived an idea that elevated and emboldened 
her passion. She wished to make of Pippo more than her lover; she wished to make 
of him a great painter. She knew the dissipated life he led and had resolved to 
draw him away from it. She knew that in him, despite his follies, the sacred 
fire of Art was not dead but merely covered with cinders and she hoped that love 
might revive the divine spark.She had hesitated for a whole year, cherishing 
this idea in secret, meeting Pippo from time to time and looking at his windows 
when she passed along the quay. A whim had led her on: she had been unable to 
resist the temptation to embroider a purse and send it to him. She had promised 
herself, it is true, to go no further and never to attempt more. But when the 
Signora Dorothee had shown her the verses that Pippo had written for her, she 
had wept tears of joy. She was aware of the risk she was taking in trying to 
realize her dream, but it was the dream of a woman, and she had said on leaving 
her house—" What a woman wishes, God wills." 
Led and sustained by this thought, by her love and by her sincerity, she felt 
herself under the shelter of her fear. In kneeling before Pippo, she had just 
made her first prayer to love, but after the sacrifice of her pride, the 
impatient god asked of her another. She hesitated no more about becoming the 
mistress of Tizianello than if she had been his wife. 
She removed her veil and placed it on a statue of Venus that was in the room; 
then, as beautiful and as pale as the marble goddess, she abandoned herself to 
Fate. 
She spent the day with Pippo, as had been arranged. At sunset the gondola that 
had brought her came to take her away. She left as secretly as she had entered. 
The servants had been sent off, under various pretexts, and the porter alone 
remained in the house. Accustomed to his master's manner of life, he was not 
surprised to see a masked woman cross the gallery with Pippo. But when he saw 
the lady, on nearing the door, lift her mask and Pippo give her a last kiss, he 
noiselessly advanced and listened. 
"Had you never noticed me?" Beatrice was gaily asking. 
"Yes," answered Pippo, "but I did not know your face. You yourself, I am sure, 
do not doubt your beauty." 
"Nor you either. You are as beautiful as day, a thousand times more so than I 
thought. Shall you love me?" 
"Yes, and for a long time." 
"And I always." 
With these words they separated and Pippo remained on the step, following with 
his eyes the gondola that was carrying Beatrice Donato. 
CHAPTER VI 
TWO weeks had passed and Beatrice had not yet spoken of the project she had 
formed. To tell the truth, she had somewhat forgotten it herself. The first days 
of an amorous union are like the voyages of the Spaniards when they discovered 
the new world. On embarking, they promised their government to follow precise 
instructions, to bring back maps, and to civilize America. But hardly had they 
arrived when the sight of an unknown sky, a virgin forest, a mine of gold or 
silver made them lose their memory. To run after a novelty, they forgot their 
promises and the whole of Europe, but they happened to discover a treasure: and 
thus will lovers sometimes act. 
Still another reason gave Beatrice an excuse. During these two weeks Pippo had 
not gambled and had not once gone to the Comtesse Orsini's. It was the beginning 
of wisdom. At least Beatrice thought so, and I do not know if she was right or 
wrong. Pippo passed half the day with his mistress and the other half in 
watching the sea and in drinking the wine of Samos in an alehouse of the Lido. 
His friends no longer saw him. He had altered all his habits and worried neither 
about time, the hour of day, nor his actions. 
In a word, he was enthused with the deep forgetfulness of all things which the 
first kisses of a beautiful woman always leave behind them, and can you say of a 
man, in such a case, that he was wise or foolish? 
To make use of a word which expresses it all, Pippo and Beatrice were made for 
each other. They had noticed it since the first day, but still they wanted time 
to be convinced of it, and for that a month was not too long. So a month went by 
without a word about painting. On the other hand, love, music on the water and 
walks outside the city were much indulged in. Great ladies sometimes prefer a 
secret pleasure party at an inn in the suburbs,to a small supper in a boudoir. 
Beatrice was of this opinion, and she preferred a fresh fish eaten tete-a-tete 
with Pippo under the arbors of Quintavalle, to even the dinners of the Doge. The 
meal over, they would get into a gondola and go wandering around the Island of 
the Armenians. It is there, between the city and the Lido, between the sky and 
the sea, that I advise the reader to go, on a fine moonlight night, and make 
love to the ladies of Venice. 
At the end of a month, one day when Beatrice had secretly come to Pippo, she 
found him happier than usual. When she entered, he had just breakfasted and was 
walking up and down, singing. The sun lit up his room and caused a silver dish 
full of sequins to glisten. He had gambled the previous night and had won 
fifteen hundred piasters from Ser Vespasiano. With this sum he had purchased a 
Chinese fan, perfumed gloves, and a gold chain made in Venice and wonderfully 
chased. He placed these all in a cedar box encrusted with mother-of-pearl, which 
he offered to Beatrice. 
At first she received his present with pleasure. But soon after, when she had 
learned that it came from money won by gambling, she no longer wished to accept 
it. Instead of joining in Pippo's cheerfulness, she fell to dreaming. Perhaps 
she thought he already loved her less, since he had gone back to his old 
pleasures. However that may be, she saw that the moment had come for speaking, 
and for attempting to make him give up the bad habits into which he was again to 
fall. 
It was a difficult undertaking. In a month she had been able to fathom Pippo's 
character. He was, it is true, extremely lazy as regards ordinary events of 
life, and he practised the far niente with delight. But for more important 
things it was not easy to master him, on account of this very idleness. For as 
soon as persons wished to master him, instead of struggling and disputing, he 
let them speak their mind and none the less had his own way. To accomplish her 
purpose, Beatrice asked him if he would paint her portrait. 
He consented without demur. The next day he bought a canvas, and had brought 
into his room a fine easel of carved oak which had belonged to his father. 
Beatrice came in the morning, clothed in an ample brown gown, which she removed 
when Pippo was ready to start work. Then she appeared before him in a costume 
almost identical with that in which Paris Bordone had clothed his "Crowned 
Venus." Her hair, knotted in front and intermingled with pearls, fell over her 
arms and shoulders in long waving locks. A necklace of pearls which fell to her 
waist and was fastened in the middle of her bosom with a clasp of gold, followed 
and set off the perfect outline of her naked form. Her dress of variable 
taffeta, blue and pink, was held up at the knee by a ruby clasp, leaving 
uncovered a leg as polished as marble. She also wore rich bracelets and slippers 
of scarlet velvet, laced with gold. 
The "Venus" of Bordone is, as is well known, nothing but the portrait of a 
Venetian lady; and this painter, pupil of Titian, had a great reputation in 
Italy. But Beatrice, who possibly knew the model, well knew that she was 
possessed of far greater beauty. She wished to excite Pippo's emulation and she 
pointed out to him that in this way he could surpass Bordone. "By the blood of 
Diana!" cried the young man when he had examined her for some time, "the 
'Crowned Venus' is but an oyster-woman from the Arsenal disguised as a goddess; 
but behold the mother of love and the mistress of the God of Battle!" 
It is easy to believe that his first care, on seeing such a beautiful model, was 
not to begin painting. For a moment Beatrice thought she was too beautiful and 
had not set about her projects of reform in a manner at all likely to succeed. 
However, the portrait was begun, but was sketched by a heedless hand. By chance 
Pippo's brush fell. Beatrice picked it up, and on returning it to her lover, 
said to him: "Your father's brush one day fell from his hand in like manner. 
Charles V. picked it up and returned it to him. I wish to do as Caesar did, 
although I am no empress." 
Pippo had always felt for his father the greatest affection and admiration, and 
never spoke of him but with respect. This reminder impressed him. He rose and 
opened a cupboard. "There is the paint-brush of which you speak," said he to 
Beatrice while pointing it out. "My poor father kept it like a relic, ever since 
the master of half the world had touched it." 
"Were you present at this scene," asked Beatrice, "and could you tell me all 
about it?" 
"I was very young," answered Pippo, "but I remember. It was at Bologna. There 
had been an interview between the Pope and the Emperor. It was a question of the 
Duchy of Florence, or rather of the destiny of Italy. Paul III. and Charles V. 
had been talking on a terrace, and during their conversation the entire town was 
still. At the end of an hour everything was settled. A great sound of men and 
horses succeeded the silence. They were ignorant of what had happened and 
anxious to find out, but the deepest secrecy had been enjoined. It was with 
curiosity and terror that the inhabitants watched pass even the smallest officer 
of the two courts. The dismemberment of Italy, exiles and new principalities 
were all hinted at. My father was working on a large picture and was at the top 
of a ladder which he used for painting, when some halberdiers, pike in hand, 
entered and ranged themselves against the wall. A page entered and cried in a 
loud voice, 'Caesar!' A few minutes after, the Emperor appeared in his stiff 
doublet and smiling through his red beard. My father, surprised and charmed at 
this unexpected visit, came down from his ladder as quickly as he could. He was 
old, and upon leaning on the rail, he let fall his paint-brush. Every one 
remained motionless, for the presence of the Emperor had turned us into statues. 
My father became confused at his slowness and awkwardness, but feared to fall 
should he hurry. Charles V. took a few steps forward, bent slowly and picked up 
the paint-brush. 'Titian,' said he, in a clear and imperious voice, 'Titian well 
deserves to be waited on by Caesar.' And with a majesty really unequaled, he 
returned the brush to my father, who knelt to receive it." 
After this story, which Pippo was unable to tell without emotion, Beatrice 
remained silent for some time. She bent her head and appeared so absorbed that 
he asked her of what she was thinking. 
"I am thinking of one thing," she answered. "Charles V. is dead now, and his son 
is King of Spain. What would be thought of Phillip, if instead of carrying his 
father's sword, he allowed it to rust in an armory?" 
Pippo smiled, and although he had understood Beatrice's thoughts, he asked her 
what she meant. 
"I mean to say," she answered, "that you, also, are a king's son, for Bordone, 
Moretto and Romanino are good painters; Tintoretto and Giorgione were artists; 
but Titian was a king—and who now wields his scepter?" 
"My brother Orazio," answered Pippo, "would have been a great painter, had he 
lived." 
"Without doubt," answered Beatrice, "and this is what will be said of the sons 
of Titian: 'One could have been great had he lived, and the other, if he had 
wished.'" 
"Do you think so?" said Pippo, laughing. "Well, they will surely add: 'But he 
preferred going about in a gondola with Beatrice Donato.'" 
As it was a different answer Beatrice had hoped for, she was rather 
disconcerted. However, she did not lose courage but spoke more seriously. 
"Listen to me," said she, "and do not laugh. The only picture you have painted 
has been admired. There is no one who does not regret its loss, but the life you 
lead is something worse than the burning of the Dolfino Palace, for it is 
consuming you yourself. You think of nothing but enjoying yourself and do not 
reflect that what is for others but an amusement is a shame to you. The son of a 
rich merchant can play with the dice, but not Tizianello. Of what use is it that 
you know as much as our oldest painters and that you possess the youth they 
lack? You have only to try to succeed, and you will not try. Your friends 
deceive you, but I do my duty in telling you that you disgrace your father's 
name; and who will tell you, if not myself ? So long as you are rich, you will 
find people to assist in your ruin. So long as you are good-looking, women will 
love you. But what will happen if you are not told the truth while still young? 
I am your mistress, my Lord, but I wish also to be your lover. Would to God you 
had been born poor! If you love me, you must work. In a district far from the 
town, I have discovered a small unpretentious house, with but one floor. We will 
furnish it, if you wish, to our taste and we will have two keys: one shall be 
for you, and I will keep the other. There we need fear no one and shall be free. 
You shall have an easel brought there, and if you will promise to work just two 
hours a day, I will come and see you there every day. Have you enough patience 
for this? If you agree, a year hence you will probably no longer love me, but 
you will have become accustomed to working and there will be one more famous 
name for Italy. If you refuse, I can not cease loving you, but it will show you 
do not love me." 
While Beatrice was talking she trembled. She feared to offend her lover, yet she 
had taken upon herself to speak unreservedly. This fear and the desire to please 
caused her eyes to sparkle. She no longer resembled Venus but a Muse. 
Pippo did not answer immediately. He found her so beautiful that he left her 
some time in doubt. To tell the truth, he had paid less attention to her 
remonstrances than to the tone in which they had been pronounced; but this 
penetrating voice had charmed him. Beatrice had spoken with all her soul, in the 
purest Tuscan and with Venetian gentleness. When a lively arietta proceeds from 
a beautiful mouth, we do not take much notice of the words. It is sometimes even 
more agreeable not to hear them too distinctly, and to allow ourselves to be 
carried away by the music alone. This was just about what Pippo did. Without 
thinking of what was being demanded of him, he approached Beatrice, kissed her 
on the forehead, and said: 
"Anything you wish, for you are as beautiful as an angel." 
It was arranged that from that day Pippo would work regularly. Beatrice wished 
him to put it in writing. She produced her tablets and writing a few lines with 
loving pride, said: 
"You know that we Loredanos, we keep strict accounts:[3] I put you down as my 
debtor for two hours of work every day for a year. Sign and pay me as you 
should, so that I may know you love me." 
[3 When Foscari was tried, Jacques Loredanos, son of Pierre, thought, or 
believed he thought, it his duty to avenge the losses of his family. In his 
books (for he was in business, like almost all the patricians at this time) he 
had entered in his own writing the name of the Doge as a debtor—"for the death," 
so it read, "of my father and my uncle." On the other side of the register he 
had left a blank page whereon to inscribe the payment of this debt, and, in 
fact, after the loss of the Doge, he wrote L'ha pagata—"he has paid."—(Darn. 
History of the Republic of Venice.)] 
Pippo willingly signed. "But it is well understood," said he, "that I shall 
begin by painting your portrait." 
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 noble 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 noble 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 glass of sweetened water which he had on his 
table and fall asleep again. When, on his way to the little house, he passed 
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 
passionately 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 hoarse 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 Titian, 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 Titian 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 Titian'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 bastard 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 glass 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 noble 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 passion 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 multitude 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 passions, 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 passion." 
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 button 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 assumed 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 passed 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 passing 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 glass 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 Titian, unless it 
be his pupil Rubens; but if Titian'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 Titian'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 illustrious, 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 Titian 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 multitude 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 assume 
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 
Titian and that his Christian name was Tito, which he had altered to Titian, and 
from Titian 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. Tito cried out loudly that a 
man had attempted to assassinate him and that he demanded justice for the crime. 
The beam, still out of place, was witness to it. The assistants 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 assassin, in his turn, became angry. After having roughly pushed aside 
him who wished to arrest him, he rushed at Tito. 
"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 Titian. 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 canal, 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 pass 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 Titian. 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 passed 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, pass 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.]