“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.