Part 6
The beauty of Laura is historical, and it were difficult to give any adequate description of it. When Titian had recovered sufficient self-command to render the feelings of the man subservient to those of the artist, he raised his eyes, and fixed them on the Duchess; it was the first time he had ever ventured to do so, for, as he had hinted, Laura had ever appeared desirous of avoiding him; but recollecting that he was now in her presence by the orders of the Prince, and by nature of his business, he continued his gaze, and met in return her gracious smile. Strange, it even seemed to him that he had seen that face before--long since--in a dream possibly--or when the artist’s imagination was inspired by some ideal beauty.
Titian drew the easel towards him, and respectfully bowing, said, “Madam, I am here by your order.”
“Am I well placed thus, Sir Artist?” she replied.
The sound of this voice thrilled every nerve. He was now certain that it was not the first time they had met; but when, where, or in what country he had seen this woman, he had no recollection.
The Duchess with a little of impatience repeated her question.
“Perfectly, Madam,” replied Titian, beginning at the same time to sketch the outline of the head.
“However,” he added, somewhat hesitating, “if your Highness would show more of the hair, I think the portrait would be improved.”
“Of course, Signor Titian, your advice is law.” And the Duchess proceeded to unbind her veil, and remove the jewels which confined those beautiful tresses, which like a golden shower fell on her snow white neck and shoulders. “What magnificent hair!” exclaimed the artist in an under tone; “yes, surely I have seen this woman before; but then she had not the transcendent beauty she has since attained, and which now renders her the most perfect model a painter could wish.”
Titian worked on as if inspired; and when the head and part of the shoulders were sufficiently advanced to allow the artist to satisfy the curiosity of the fair original, Titian permitted the Duchess to look at the canvass. On beholding the likeness, and the beauty of the sketch, Laura d’Este uttered a cry of surprise and admiration.
“You see, Madam, how much has been gained by yielding to my request to remove that heavy head dress, and you will, I hope, equally comply with my wish to see that gown taken off; attend, I beg you, Madam, to an artist’s advice--uncover those shoulders, so perfect in shape, that bust, so exquisitely formed, the contour of which is perfection. Surely it was not to paint a bit of stuff, or a knot of riband that God has endowed us with a talent of creation only secondary to his own great power; for I too can give life to that world of beauty, and when it shall have ceased to exist, it will survive on my canvass.”
“I no longer wonder that I was told to beware of Titian,” said the Duchess, as she gradually obeyed the painter’s directions; “our great Ariosto is not the only flatterer at our court.”
“If, Madam, you doubt my word, consult this mirror; its reflection is not more true than my language.”
As by degrees the Duchess, in compliance with Titian’s wishes, uncovered her foot, her leg, her knee--the whole of the admirable form which had placed on her fair brow the crown of Ferrara--Titian recalled the past; the vague ideas which had floated in his brain assumed consistency, and a name, a date, were all left wanting to satisfy him.
And now the exquisite outline was nearly complete; one only obstacle remained, the few folds of velvet which like a dark shade fell on the form of snow white beauty, and prevented this master-piece of art from shining forth in all its dazzling perfection.
“How happy was that artist,” exclaimed Titian with bitterness, “whose chisel was suffered to sculpture the Venus of old in all the chaste nudity of nature! He did not look on diamonds and draperies. Oh! were the same privilege given me, this day should my pencil also produce a Venus de Medicis!”
“Behold me, then!” exclaimed the Duchess, half laughing.
Titian, turning round, uttered a cry of amazement.
The wife of Don Alphonso of Ferrara had dropped her last veil, and reclined on her divan precisely in the same attitude in which at this time Titian’s Venus may still be seen with delight in the gallery at Florence.
“Great God! I was not then mistaken,” said Titian, hurrying towards her.
“Well!”
“It is you!”
“It is me. Your model--your Laurette! Ungrateful man! you had then forgotten me!”
“Can I believe it? the daughter of poor Guanetto?”
“Yes, she, who for a morsel of bread came to stand in your studio as a model, at Venice, is now the Sovereign of Ferrara. But the most surprising part of the event is, that her old lord and master persisted in his forgetfulness, and refused to recognise the Duchess of Ferrara till she had again descended to her humble capacity of a model.”
“I thought, indeed, those features were not unknown to me.”
“Well, this is something.--However, I forgive you. Twelve years have elapsed, and I must be much altered.”
“And how did you attain your present position?”
“As the wife of Don Alphonso? Simply thus. He saw me, loved me, and married me--nothing more natural.”
“Yes, he loves you, I have the proof of this.”
“He adores me. Ever since your arrival at Ferrara, he has entreated me to give him this portrait. I avoided it as long as I could, but was at length obliged to consent to prevent his being seriously grieved. God knows, I dreaded the moment enough! for....” And the young woman hesitated, and sighed.
“I understand: prudence bade you avoid me.”
“No, it was shame.”
Titian bowed down his head, and appeared buried in thought: when he had somewhat recovered himself, and was able to speak--“Come, Madam,” he said kindly but firmly, “replace your splendid robe, and adjust your head-dress. This sketch is now useless, and I will complete it another time. In my studio I have a portrait of you such as the Prince desires to possess. But I wish also to paint you for your subjects: since fate has placed a sovereign crown on your head, it shall not be said that I have deprived you of it, even in a picture.”
“But what will my husband say?”
“He can but be pleased; for instead of the one portrait ordered, there will be two--one as a Venus, the other as a Princess.”
Three days afterwards, Titian had returned to Venice....
Titian at this period was about thirty-seven years of age. He was tall and dignified, his forehead high, his eyes large and full of expression and feeling, his profile was correctly Grecian, his long beard curled naturally, he was framed to inspire respect and love. His manners were all grace, his smile enchanting.
After his return to Venice, he lived in princely style, so as to vie even with the splendour of the palace of the Doge. Affable, cheerful, generous, he was beloved even by his rivals. No artist ever acquired such wealth, or lavished it more generously and willingly.
[Sidenote: Pacheco. Granella.]
Two Cardinals one day called unexpectedly at his _Atelier_, and told him they came to dine with him. Titian detained them a short time under pretence of retouching their portraits, and when unobserved, threw his purse out of the window, saying to a servant, “I have some one to dinner.” In an hour after, their Eminences sat down to a repast served with regal splendour.
Titian’s studio was the resort and rendezvous of every remarkable personage in Europe: from every quarter of the world people hurried to behold the venerable old man, who approached his hundredth year. Henry III. King of France and Poland, attended by the Dukes of Ferrara, Mantua, and Albano, paid a visit of ceremony to the distinguished artist, and conversed at length with him on the subject of his honourable reception at the several courts of Charles V. and of Ferdinand and Philip. He admired all his collection of pictures, and having selected those he was desirous of purchasing, he begged that Titian would himself name the sum he should pay for them, and which should be immediately laid down. The old man smiled, and rising with some difficulty from his chair, he bowed respectfully to the king, saying, “Your Majesty will confer on me the favour of accepting these pictures, as a proof of my gratitude. I never take money from my guests.”
[Sidenote: Pope.]
Titian was unequalled in his talent for giving _life_ to his portraits. It is an undoubted fact that having placed the portrait of Paul III. on his terrace, to dry the varnish, the people who passed by, supposing it to be really the Pope taking the air on the balcony, stopped to bow with reverence to his Holiness.
Titian died of the plague raging in Venice, in 1576. Regrets and tears followed the splendid artist to the tomb, in the church of St. Luc, where he was interred with the highest honours.
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[Sidenote: For my Cottage.]
_Diospyrus Lotus_ is a handsome tree for a shrubbery. It grows very gracefully, spreading out its branches, and its leaves are tinged underneath with a beautiful pink, and covered with a long, soft, pinkish down. It is quite hardy.
Also the Locust tree of the Americans, _Robina pseudacacia_; it receives its name from Jean Robins, the Herbalist of Henry IV. and is very hardy. The flowers, which are very sweet, resemble a bunch of white laburnum.
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_The Hand of Heaven._
Despair, and suffering, and sorrow, Had poured their bitterness on me; Hope had no ray to gild the morrow, And life was only misery.
Each coming day shed deeper sadness, And health along with hope had fled; Religion only saved from madness This aching agonized head.
At length, when nature’s pulse was dying, That Power, which brought religious balm Gave back the life that seem’d fast flying, With health, and hope, and peaceful calm.
Cease then, woe’s child, thy deep despairing; Remember, Heaven’s hand can save, Though every sorrow thou art sharing, Though life seems hov’ring o’er the grave.
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Sorrow, though it ever sharpens the intellect, also sometimes sours the heart.
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[Sidenote: Bayle and his Mother.]
It is said of the celebrated writer, _Bayle_, that when his mother desired to receive his portrait, he sent her a picture of his _heart_.
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[Sidenote: Traditions.]
In a palace on the site of Hatton Garden, died John of Gaunt. _Brook House_, at the corner of Brook Street, Holborn, was the residence of Sir Fulke Greville, Lord Brook, the friend of Sir Philip Sydney. In the same street died Chatterton, by poison, and was buried in the Workhouse, Shoe Lane. In Gray’s Inn lived, and meditated, Lord Bacon. At the corner of Chancery Lane, Fleet Street, Cowley was born. In Salisbury Court, Fleet Street, was the house of Thomas Sackville, first Earl of Dorset, one of the first authors of English Tragedy. In Bolt Court, not far distant, lived Dr. Johnson. Congreve died in Surrey Street, Strand, at his own house. In Maiden Lane, Covent Garden, Voltaire lodged while in London, at the sign of the White Peruke. In Leicester Square was the town mansion of the Sydneys, Earl of Leicester, and the families of Sir Philip and Algernon Sydney. Dryden lived and died in Gerard Street. Newton lived in St. Martin’s Street. Steele in Bury Street, St. James’s. Spencer died at an inn where he put up, in King Street, Westminster. Sir Thomas More lived at Chelsea. Addison lived and died in Holland House, Kensington. Handel lived in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, and Gibbon in Bentinck Street, Manchester Square. De Foe kept a hosier’s shop in Cornhill.
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_The Graves of the Departed loved._
With fairest flowers I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; Nor the azured harebell, like thy veins; No, nor the leaf of eglantine, Which, not to slander it, outsweeten’d Not thy breath.
“These to renew with more than annual care, That wakeful love with pensive step will go; The hand that lifts the dibble shakes with fear, Lest haply it disturb the friend below.
Vain fear! yet who that boasts a heart to feel, An eye to pity, would that fear reprove? They only who are cursed with breasts of steel Can mock the foibles of surviving love.”
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[Sidenote: Eyes of the Mind.]
Objects are but bright and happy as the eyes of the mind see them; with a vision clouded or unclouded by its secret shadow.
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La Philosophie triomphe aisément des maux passés et des maux à venir; mais les maux présens triomphent d’elle.
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[Sidenote: Refinement.]
Those who rail at poetry and refinement as superfluous ingredients in every day happiness, little know what main props they thus seek to undermine. These will abide when even principles wave. _Manly delicacy_ is as necessary in family life as manly rectitude; and _womanly tact_ as womanly virtue. There is as much happiness wrecked from the absence of the one, as of the other, and perhaps more. Those who neglect the _varnishes_ of life, commit an insidious sin towards themselves: and these lie in the _mind_, and not in the _purse_.
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_Delights of Sea Bathing as_ usually _the custom_.
A chilly early rising with a walk to the beach before the day is aired, a tormentor in the shape of a rough sailor, or fat fisherwoman, to plunge you remorselessly beneath a horrid wave, whence you issue blinded, deafened, and stifled, and incomparably colder and crosser than you went in.
Why not, when the day is at the hottest, step leisurely in like a water-nymph, bathe head and face, nestle gradually beneath the rippling waves, and dabble with their smooth resistance for twenty minutes at least, emerging with limbs pliant and strengthened?
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[Sidenote: Effect of Scenery on the Mind.]
Surely the presence of sublimity and beauty must render the temperament of those who dwell in such solitudes poetical; and yet the mountain shepherd is only weather wise. Always simple, often stupid, he is scarcely superior in intelligence to his watch dogs, which are at the same time his coadjutors, his playfellows, and his protectors.
It is strange, if--living here alone amid the snows, removed from the contagious vices of mankind, from the coarse sensuality, the brutality, the debasement too often found in the world, from the temptations, the struggles, the strife produced by want, envy, ambition, the love of gain; constantly familiar with the ever varying face of primitive nature, with her grandest and loveliest aspects--the mind be not elevated, and the soul pure. Hourly are sights beheld, seen only in these regions. The glaciers reflecting tints of every hue, gilded with sunshine, or glowing with rose light. The stars, no longer brilliant specks, but appearing as they are, globes of intense fire. The moon, seeming to shed with her white beams the coldness of the icy skies. The whistling, the howling of the blast, its subterranean muttering, the roar of the thunder, all prolonged by a hundred echoes. The lightning flashing upon a numerous crystal-like pinnacle, the shivered pines, the rent rocks, the sublimity of the tempest! Then the dread silence which succeeds. The fleecy snow no longer falls; all is entranced by the mighty spell of frost; all mute, all motionless. Spring returns; the sun regains his power; light fleecy clouds float in the heavens; soft, balmy rains descend: below, verdure, foliage, and flowers burst forth with almost the first gleam of sunshine: but ah! the torrents are unbound, the masses of snow tremble, they are loosened, they fall: the avalanche overwhelms the valley with destruction and desolation.
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_Inscription on a Sun Dial._
Mark well my shade, and seriously attend The silent lesson of a common friend. Since time and life speed hastily away, And no one can recall the former day, Improve each flitting hour before ’tis past, And know each fleeting hour may be thy last!
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[Sidenote: Law of Jury.]
The English law of Jury is founded on the law of nature. Man is to be judged by his _Peers_, because by them only can he be loved.
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[Sidenote: Tradition.]
The Rainbow Coffee-house, near Temple Bar, one of the oldest taverns in the metropolis, was kept by James Fan, a barber, soon after the introduction of coffee into England. Three years previous to the Restoration, anno 1657, he was presented by the Inquest of St. Dunstan’s in the West, “For making and selling a sort of liquor called ‘Coffee,’ as a great nuisance and prejudice of the neighbourhood,” &c. Strange as it may appear, within half a century of this period, namely in 1708, there were upwards of three thousand Coffee-houses in London alone. An old author says, Who would have thought, after the prejudice against coffee, which was considered pernicious and a public nuisance, it would have been, as now, so much drunk “by the _best of quality_, and by _physicians_?”
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[Sidenote: Tobacco.]
In the archives of the Society of Antiquaries, amongst other curious documents, is an alehouse license, granted by six justices of the peace in Kent, in which the innkeeper is thus enjoined: “Item, You shall not utter, nor suffer to be uttered, drunke, or taken, any tobacco within your house, cellar, or other place thereunto belonging.” This is dated in the time of James I.
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[Sidenote: Duchesse d’Abrantes.]
Her writings are not better known to the world, than her kind and generous mind were to those who had remained faithful during her many and great reverses of fortune. In the zenith of power, when her smile or frown could give value or discredit to those who surrounded her, she was a friend of the needy, a protectress of the weak. Her position often created envy, but her winning manner, her graceful accueil converted many an envious discontented spirit into an admiring friend. In her trials and reverses she was made to feel how few are the friends and followers of prosperity whose feelings do not become chilled by the sight of adversity.
The same kind and conciliatory manner, the same noble enthusiasm, the same powers of conversation, refined and heightened by the literary career she had adopted to ward off the actual and pressing gripe of poverty, were still hers; but their value was differently estimated. The small and modest apartment could boast of but few of the _habitués_ who had formerly swelled to suffocation the crowd that formerly frequented her gilded _salons_. Some few were to be found, however, surrounding her couch of pain, and never had she taken so much trouble to court and conciliate the richest nobles, the reigning princes of her own and other lands, as she now did to show her cordial welcome, and the heartfelt pleasure she felt in beholding the faithful few, who dreamed not while listening to her brilliant wit, her sparkling reminiscences of bright fêtes in which she had been a principal actress, that the finger of death was already on her, that her moments of life and vivacity freely given for their amusement, were stimulated by the excessive use of opium, while her hours of racking pain and mental anguish were confined to her own bosom.
She died in poverty; she who had given away in charity a hundred times more than would have made her last days comparatively affluent and easy--died in want. Her last days, nay hours, disturbed by pressing, though trifling demands. She died in an _Hospital_ for the destitute.
I am proud to remember that she honoured me with her esteem and friendship.
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[Sidenote: Philip II.]
Philip II. of Spain, said satirically, but truly, that actions in themselves are nothing, it is the _result_ that stamps them with right or wrong.
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[Sidenote: Beauty.]
Bacon says justly, the best part of beauty is that which a picture cannot express.
[Sidenote: Jacobite Poetry.]
The following are the words to which the Jacobites sing the air of “God save the king,” which was originally a Jacobite song. Copied from an inscription cut on a glass drinking cup, at Fingarth, in the Carse of Gourie, Perthshire.
God save the King, I pray, God bless the King, I pray, God save the King; Send him victorious, Happy, and glorious, Soon to reign over us, God save the King!
God bless the Prince of Wales, The true born Prince of Wales[5] Sent us by Thee; Grant us one favour more, The King for to restore, As thou hast done before, The familie!
This tradition may remind the reader of the answer of the Jacobite Countess, to the reproach of “not praying for the King.”--“For the King, I do pray; but I do not think it necessary to tell God _who is the King_.”
[5] From this line it appears that these verses must have been written about the time of the rebellion, 1715, or before it.
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[Sidenote: Ill-placed Confidence.]
Among the bitter varieties of sorrow, forming the inheritance of the human kind, there are few more humiliating, more fitted to cleave into the inmost soul, than a discovery of the unworthiness of those we love; of a breach of confidence in that heart wherein we have deposited the whole treasure of our affections. There is a degree of self-abasement connected with the disappointment, which recoils with double force on our perceptions; the sharpness of the pain admits of no mitigation.
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[Sidenote: Charity of Mind.]
The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions of little (_not_) soon forgotten charities. The _humblest_ may throw in their mite.
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[Sidenote: Bells.]
The sound of bells is never heard in Turkey, their necessity is superseded in the following manner: a circular gallery is built round the turrets of the mosques, where Turkish boys are stationed, who in a loud voice summon the Mahometans three times a day to prayers; at sunrise, at noon, and at sunset. They do not employ watchmen, as their maxim is, “each for himself, and God for us all.”
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[Sidenote: La Mélancolie.]
De ta tige détachée, Pauvre feuille desséchée, Où vas-tu?--Je n’en sais rien: L’orage a brisé le chêne Qui seul était mon soutien. De son inconstante haleine, Le zéphir, ou l’aquilon, Depuis ce jour me promène De la forêt à la plaine, De la montagne au vallon; Je vais où le vent me mène, Sans me plaindre, ou m’effrayer; Je vais où va toute chose, Où va la feuille de rose, Et la feuille de laurier.
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[Sidenote: A Fire Screen.]
Draw a landscape on paper with common Indian ink, representing a winter scene, a mere outline, the foliage to be painted with muriate of cobalt (green), muriate of copper (yellow), and acetate of cobalt (blue), all which colours are invisible; but on the screen being held near the fire, the gentle warmth will occasion the trees, flowers, &c. to display themselves in their natural colours, and winter is magically changed to summer. As the paper cools, the colours disappear, and the effect may be repeated as often as required.
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[Sidenote: Banquo’s Son.]
Fleance, Banquo’s son, who escaped from the murderous designs of Macbeth, fled into Wales; where for some time he kept himself close, and having afterwards married Nesta, the daughter of Griffith ap Llewelin, prince of North Wales, he begat Walter, who returning into Scotland, suppressed the rebellion of the Highlanders with the reputation of so much bravery, and managed the king’s revenues in those parts with so great prudence, that the king made him _Steward_ of the whole kingdom of Scotland. Whereupon, this name of an office gave the surname of Stewart to his posterity: which, spreading through all parts of Scotland in many noble branches, and being advanced to several honours, hath long flourished there. Three hundred and thirty years ago, Robert Stewart, a descendant of this house, in right of Marjorie his mother, daughter of King Robert Bruce, obtained the kingdom of Scotland.
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[Sidenote: Uncertainty.]