In 1812 the splendid collection of one hundred and twenty thousand volumes and ten thousand manuscripts was transferred to the more spacious halls of the Ducal Palace, leaving the Great Hall of the Libreria with its paintings by Veronese and Tintoretto, and the row of Greek philosophers which look down from between the windows. Ruskin calls these last the finest paintings of the kind in existence. One of these is the Diogenes, which Tintoretto painted with the greatest care, because Titian had told the Procurators of St. Mark that Tintoretto was not worthy to be employed in the decoration of this hall. But these officials thought this a little severe, and gave Tintoretto his opportunity.
Diogenes is nude and seated, with his legs crossed. One elbow rests on the thigh, and the raised hand supports the chin. It is the impersonation of profound meditation. There is such power in the modelling of this figure, and the light is so managed, that it stands out as if it did not intend to remain in the niche where it is placed. Two other works of Tintoretto's are also here, in spite of the efforts to deprive him of the honor. They represent the removal of the relics of Saint Mark from Alexandria, and Saint Mark rescuing a sailor.
When, under Eugene Beauharnais, the Procuratie Nuove were converted into the Palazzo Imperiale, the Libreria Vecchia was made a part of the Palace, and united to the buildings of the Piazza.
CHAPTER XVIII.
PALACES AND PICTURES.
Venice has no plan. The canals are bordered with edifices that appear to rest upon the water; and many of its palaces are so beautiful that they seem as worthy to have risen from the white sea-foam as was Venus Anadyomene herself. Behind these palaces, winding in and out like serpents, are the calli, which appear to begin nowhere and to lead to the same place, twining now and then about the little campi, which afford breathing-spaces on land, as the canals do on the water. It would seem that one must be Venetian born, or, forsaking all others, must cleave to Venice itself for better or worse, if he would learn to thread these mazy ways with confidence.
It appears, too, that this want of plan permeates the life of Venice. Everybody and everything seem to be guided by the fancy of the moment. It is charming and so easily acquired,—this dolce far niente. One feels it, and acts upon it without realizing it; it is inhaled with the air itself.
