“True,” replied another artist, whose full round tones and rich emphasis bespoke him a Roman; “but taste is not intuitive; nor can it be attained by merely studying the appearances of nature and the theories of art. We must also explore the rich treasures of painting which adorn and dignify our beautiful Italy. It is not enough, however, to study a single specimen of each great master; we must patiently and repeatedly examine his progressive improvements and his various styles. By perseverance in this process, a young artist will beneficially exercise his eye and his judgment, and will readily distinguish the best pictures in a collection. Any degree of discipline short of this will be inadequate to raise him above the level of the mob, which followed in procession the Madonna of Cimabue, and lauded it as the ne plus ultra of art because they had never seen anything better.”
The young stranger now addressed them with much animation: “I presume not to decide,” said he, “how far the last speaker is correct in his opinions. The incessant noise on the piazza precludes any deliberate consideration of the subject; but so far as I could collect the subject of Maestro Paul’s opinion, I understood him to insist upon the necessity of knowing the limits of art. I trust he will pardon so young an artist for uttering sentiments at variance with his own; and that I shall not lose ground in his esteem if I contend that every object in art is material, and that ideal forms and models of excellence are absurdities. An Aspasia and a Phryne, youthful and lovely, maybe elevated into a Pallas and a Venus by an able and imaginative painter, whose excited fancy will readily improve upon his models, and invest each feature, form, and attitude, with classical and appropriate expression. But an ideal and perfectly beautiful woman, destitute of every attribute arising from climate and national peculiarities, is a phantom of the brain. And yet how many common-place artists, who have consumed the most valuable portion of their lives in drawing from plaster-casts, call these insufferably vacant faces and forms genuine art, and affect to look down upon the master-spirits who have immortalised themselves by matchless portraits of the great men and beautiful women of their own times!”
The parties soon after separated, and Paul Veronese left the tavern, accompanied by the stranger. I followed, and observed them walking round the piazza, and pausing occasionally to listen to the melodious barcarolos, and sportive sallies of the gay Venetians. At the entrance of the Merceria the youth saluted and left his companion, and I promptly availed myself of the opportunity to unmask and approach him. He immediately recognised me, and expressed himself gratified to observe that my accident had been unattended with evil consequence. I repeated warmly my acknowledgments, and assured him of my ardent wish to prove my gratitude by rendering him any service in my power. He appeared, however, rather disconcerted than pleased by these professions, and exclaimed with some vehemence, “What have I done for you that I would not readily have attempted for the lowest of human beings? How many a wretch throws himself from a precipice into the deep to bring up a paltry coin! I have been taught to think that exaggerated praise for the performance of a mere act of duty has a tendency to promote vanity and cowardice; and I predict the decay of true heroism and public spirit from the growing practice of commemorating trivial events and trivial men by statues, columns, and inscriptions.”
“You may disclaim all merit,” I replied; “but I cannot forget that, to save the life of a stranger, you bounded from the lofty bulwark of a frigate. I maintain that there is something god-like in the man who hazards his life with such generous promptitude; and I think you cannot but admit that gratitude is the strongest and most agreeable tie which binds society together. Surely, then, if the fervent and enthusiastic expression of it be a failing, it is an amiable one.”
He took my hand and gave me a look of cordial sympathy, but said nothing in reply. I warmly urged him to pass the evening with me; he assented, and we proceeded in a gondola up the grand canal to my abode. During supper the conversation was gay and spirited, but confined to generalities; and it was not until we were released from the presence of menials that our ideas flowed with unrestrained freedom and confidence. The government and state-policy of Venice were passed in review; and my guest lauded the wisdom of the senate in having embraced the first opportunity of concluding with honour the arduous struggle they had maintained against the formidable power of Turkey. He rejoiced that the Doge could again espouse the Adriatic sea-nymph with all the accustomed display of pomp and power, and remarked how essential to the safety and independence of Venice was the uninterrupted annual celebration of a festival which fostered the pride and courage of the people.
“Our ancient bride,” I replied, “has of late exhibited some ominous symptoms of caprice and inconstancy. The ceremony should have taken place two days since, but the wild goddess was restive and untameable, and insulted the old Doge, her destined spouse, by rolling the bodies of a dozen drowned wretches up the grand canal to the stairs of his palace. Pope Alexander III., who exercised some influence over the capricious fair one, is unfortunately no more; and Columbus, the hero of whom Genoa proved herself so unworthy, has explored and subdued for the princes of Castile the genuine Amphitrite, in comparison with whom the bride of Venice is a mere nymph.”
“The destinies of Venice,” he observed, with a touch of sarcasm in his manner, “must be accomplished. She has reached, and probably passed, the climax of her political greatness. Other nations, in the vigour of youth, and possessing greater local advantages, have commenced their maritime career, and this proud republic must submit to decline and fall, as mightier states have done before her. Already I perceive symptoms of unsoundness in her political institutions, of declining energy and shallow policy in the conduct of her wars and negotiations. If you could not preserve by resolute defence the Isle of Cyprus, which has owned your sway for a century, you might have saved it by the easy and obvious expedient of allowing the Sultan to receive at a cheaper rate his annual supply of its delicious wines, and by refusing to shelter in the harbour of Famaugusta the Christian corsairs who capture the beauties destined for the seraglio. The sweet island of Love is now lost for ever to the state of Venice, and its incomparable wines become every year more rare and costly throughout Italy.”
The keen edge of his remarks touched me sensibly, and wounded all my pride of birth and country. This revulsion of feeling did not escape the quick perceptions of my guest: the recollection that he was speaking thus unguardedly to the son of a Venetian senator seemed to flash upon him, and he closed the discussion by remarking, with a smile, that we were in Venice, that Venetian walls possessed the faculty of hearing, and that there would be discretion in a change of subject. I briefly assented to the necessity of being guarded in the vicinity of Venetian domestics, who were occasionally agents of the police; and, after a pause of recollection, he resumed.
“It is time,” said he, “that I should speak of myself and of my object in Venice. I am a native of Florence, and a painter. Wearied and disgusted with the skeletons of Florentine art, I came here to study the flesh and blood of the Venetian school. The works of Titian realise everything which is valuable and essential in the art of painting, and the student who does not pursue the track of this great master will never attain high rank as a painter. In Venice, the public voice has supreme jurisdiction in matters of taste and fine art, and the artists collectively exercise little influence on public opinion. Titian fascinates all amateurs, and every artist admits his incomparable excellence in the great essential of painting, which is truth of colouring.”
“I am still too much a novice in the theories of your beautiful art,” I replied, “to contend this point with you; but you will pardon me if I suggest the probability that you are disgusted with the severity of the Tuscan school. Your abhorrence of the yoke you have escaped from impels you to the other extreme, and your admiration of Venetian art is heightened by contrasting the flesh and blood of Titian with the bones and sinews of Michael Angelo. Nevertheless, I will hazard a prediction, that instead of abandoning for ever the sound principles of the Florentine school, you will eventually resume and abide by them. Our graceful Titian is the prince of colourists, but it must be admitted that his drawing seldom rises above mediocrity.”