Scenes from the Life of Titian.
Titian Vecelli was born in 1477, at the Chateau of La Pieve, on the frontiers of Friuli, one of the seven Communes of Cador. He was by birth a gentleman, his father was Gregorio Vecelli, and his ancestors were traced to the twelfth century.
Here may be corrected an absurdity often committed in designating him as “Le Titien,” that being his baptismal name; as well say the Raphael—or the Michael Angelo. The artist may certainly be denominated “The Vecelli.”
Titian was not six years of age when he first gave notice of the great art in which he was to shine so bright a star: and even then, may be traced his transcendent genius in the power of colouring. The infant artist took his tints from nature. The fields, the gardens were his palettes; it was his custom to gather flowers, from which he expressed the juices; he required no pencil, no pen, to sketch his designs, he had discovered the fresco; instinct perfected his work; the perfume of the flower was unheeded by this wonderful child, but he would fall in extacies at the whiteness of the lily, the carnation of the rose, the purple of the iris.
Titian was united in a band of most intimate friendship with Giorgione, who had arrived from Castel-Franco, to study under Bellini, (Titian’s master) and who called himself simply “George.” He soon became the friend, the brother, the model of Titian; and when, in after years, his jealousy of Titian’s talent went to such lengths as to separate them, the latter left Venice, not being able to endure a residence in the same city, with Giorgione thus alienated from him, nor did he ever return to Venice till after the death of Giorgione.
In 1514, Alphonso d’Este, the reigning Duke of Ferrara, called Titian to his court, which at that period was considered the most brilliant and magnificent in Italy. Poets, Painters, every artist of celebrity was there admitted, and honoured in proportion to his talents. Titian’s long cherished dream of ambition and well earned fame, were now about to be realized, and his glorious talent to be estimated as it deserved. Although poor in fortune, there was no gentleman at the court of Alphonso who could vie with him in the good taste and elegance of his appearance. His manners were those of a high bred man: his conversation full of charm. The Prince soon felt the superiority of his new guest, and treated him with peculiar courtesy.
“Signor Titian,” said Alphonso, “consider our house as your own, and be at perfect ease and freedom: my dearest wish is to render it so agreeable to you, as to induce you to remain with us. It shall be our care that your residence at Ferrara may lessen your regret at quitting your beautiful Venice! Recollect though, that here pleasure takes the precedence of business; however, if in your leisure hours you should take up your pencil, we know too well how to appreciate your reputation and your talent, not to recollect at proper seasons that our court is honoured by the presence of the first painter in Venice.”
Alphonso’s conduct towards Titian fully bore out his professions, and his favour, by giving to the artist the full scope of his enthusiasm in his art, left to Titian nothing to desire. His sojourn at this court was terminated by an event which not only proves the estimation with which the duke honoured him, but gives also some idea of the morals of the period of which we speak.
Alphonso, thinking the favour which he had bestowed on Titian entitled him to make the request, one day entreated the great artist would gratify him by taking the portrait of Dona Laura Eustochio d’Este, the reigning Duchess of Ferrara.
“Listen to me, my dear Titian,” said the prince, in a tone of cordial intimacy, “you are not ignorant (for every thing is known at a court), that it was the surpassing beauty of my wife which induced me to marry her, and you will easily believe how much it will gratify me, if by your pencil her charms are rendered immortal. I know not whether the ducal mantle will be allowed to fall at your request, this favour it must be your task to obtain of the Duchess, but understand me well, great master, that my ardent desire is that by your talent I should be possessed of the faithful copy of those transcendent charms, which have so enslaved me; and divested of all veil or drapery, as though reflected in a mirror, such as are seen in your delightful paintings—so that in after times, when she is represented (such as I knew and adored her), it may be said, ‘her beauty was perfect; he was not to blame for marrying her!’”
“Monsignore,” replied Titian, “although the artist sees and thinks only as of a model, in the woman who is before him, were she a queen, yet I will confess to your Highness, that I have so seldom seen the Duchess since I have had the honour of residing at your court, and at such times she has appeared to look on me with so much coldness and dignity, that even by your order, I never could venture to prescribe what attitude and costume would be most suitable: and I really think that this would be best intimated by your Highness.”
“Not at all, my dear Titian, you know nothing of women. It suffices that a husband wishes one thing, for them to press another. What objections, what remonstrances, what reproaches I should have to endure! She would insist that I had ceased to love her, and was no longer jealous—whilst you would only speak as the painter, and would be listened to and believed, for when Titian had said ‘On my honour, Madam, I can make you a Venus,’ where is the woman who could oppose him? In short, Titian, you know my wishes, do the best you can; the Duchess expects you;” and in fact the Prince had scarcely left the room, when two pages announced that the Duchess of Ferrara waited for him.
In a room richly embellished with all the luxury of art, and which would have inspired Ariosto with the enchantment of Armida’s palace, the Duchess reclined on cushions, which yielded to every movement, a young page of such beauty as is described in Raphael’s angels, gently waved a fan of peacock’s feathers, and a little Ethiopian slave knelt at his mistress’s feet, as though placed there in order to display the whiteness of her skin by the contrast.
Into this scene Titian followed his conductor, but was struck dumb, and seized as if with vertigo: he thought himself transported into some region of fancy. On a sign from their mistress a seat, the easel, the palette, the pencils and the colours were presented to the artist, and the attendants lowly bowing withdrew, leaving Titian and the Duchess alone.
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.
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.”
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.