In the month of February of the year 1580 a young man was crossing the
Piazzeta at Venice at early dawn. His clothes were in disorder, his
cap, from which hung a beautiful scarlet feather, was pulled down over
his ears. He was walking with long strides toward the banks of the
Schiavoni, and his sword and cloak were dragging behind him, while
with a somewhat disdainful foot he picked his way among the fishermen
lying asleep on the ground. Having arrived at the bridge of Paille,
he stopt and looked around him. The moon was setting behind the
Giudecca and the dawn was gilding the Ducal Palace. From time to time
thick smoke or a brilliant light could be seen from some neighboring
palace. Planks, stones, enormous blocks of marble, and debris of every
kind obstructed the Canal of the Prisons. A recent fire had just
destroyed the home of a patrician which lined its banks. A volley of
sparks shot up from time to time, and by this sinister light an armed
soldier could be seen keeping watch in the midst of the ruins.
[Footnote 2: From De Musset's story, "Titian's Son." Translated for
this collection by Eric Arthur Bell. Titian's son, who was named
Pomponio, had been destined for the Church, but proving wasteful and
dissipated, his father caused the benefice intended for him to be
transferred to a nephew. Through the death of Titian's other son
Orazio, an artist of repute, who died soon after Titian and during the
same plague, Pomponio inherited the handsome fortune his father had
left and completely squandered it.]
Our young man, however, did not seem to be imprest either with this
spectacle of destruction or with the beauty of the sky, tinged with
the rosy colors of the dawning day. He looked for some time at the
horizon, as if to ease his tired eyes; but the brightness of the dawn
seemed to produce in him a disagreeable effect, for he wrapt himself
in his cloak and pursued his way at a run. He soon stopt again at the
door of a palace, where he knocked. A valet, holding a torch in his
hand, admitted him immediately. As he entered he turned round, and
casting one more glance at the sky, exclaimed, "By Bacchus! my
carnival has cost me dear."
This young man was called Pomponio Filippo Vecellio. He was the second
son of Titian, a youth full of spirit and imagination who had aroused
in his father the most lofty expectations, but whose passion for cards
kept him in continual dissipation. It was only four years before that
the great painter and his eldest son, Orazio, had died almost at the
same time, and young Pippo in those four years had already dissipated
the best part of the immense fortune which the double heritage had
given him. Instead of cultivating the talents which he possest by
nature and sustaining the glory of his name, he passed his days in
sleeping and his nights in playing at the house of a certain Countess
Orsini, or at least so-called countess, who made a profession of
ruining the gilded youth of Venice. Every night there assembled at her
house a large company composed of nobles and courtezans; there one
supped and played, and as one did not pay for one's supper, it goes
without saying that the dice helped to indemnify the mistress of the
house. Meanwhile, the sequins and the Cyprian wine began to flow
freely, loving glances were exchanged, and the victims, drunk with
love and wine, lost their money and their reason.
It is from this dangerous resort that we have seen the hero of this
story emerge. He had met with more than one loss during the night.
Besides having emptied his pockets at cards; the only picture he had
ever finished, one that the connoisseurs had pronounced excellent, had
just been destroyed in a fire in the Dolfino palace. It was an
historical subject, treated with a spirit and a sureness of touch
almost worthy of Titian himself. Sold to a rich Senator, this canvas
had met with the same fate as a great number of other previous works
of art; the carelessness of a valet had turned it to ashes. But this
Pippo counted the least of his misfortunes; he was only thinking of
the unlucky star that had lately been following him with unusual
insistence and of the throws of dice it had made him lose.
On entering his house, he began by taking off the coverlet which lay
on his table and counting the money left in his drawer; then, as he
was of a nature naturally gay and optimistic, after he had undrest he
sat at the window in his night robe. Seeing that it was almost
daylight, he began to ponder whether he would close the shutters and
get into bed, or get up like everybody else. It was a long time since
he had seen the sun in the east, and he found the sky more beautiful
than ever. Before deciding whether to wake up or go to sleep, he took
his chocolate on the balcony, in an effort to fight off his
drowsiness. The moment his eyes closed, he would see a table, many
trembling hands and pale faces, and would hear again the sound of the
cornets. "What fatal luck," he murmured. "Is it possible that one can
lose with fifteen?" And he saw his habitual opponent, old Vespiano
Memmo, throwing eighteen and taking up the money piled on the table.
He promptly opened his eyelids to get rid of the bad dream, and looked
at the young girls passing on the quay. He seemed to see in the
distance a masked woman; and was astonished, altho it was the time of
carnival, for poor people do not go masked, and it was strange that at
such an hour a Venetian lady should be out alone on foot. He
perceived, however, that what he had taken for a mask was the face of
a negress. On getting a nearer look at her, he saw she was not badly
formed. She walked very quickly, and a puff of wind which forced her
checkered skirt close to her limbs, showed her to have a graceful
figure. Pippo leaned over the balcony and saw not without surprize
that the negress knocked at his door.
The porter failed to open it.
"What do you want?" cried the young man. "Is it with me that your
business lies, brunette? My name is Vecellio, and if they are going to
keep you waiting, I will come and let you in myself."
The negress lifted her head.
"Your name is Pomponio Vecellio?"
"Yes, or Pippo, whichever you like."
"You are the son of Titian?"
"At your service. What can I do to please you?"
Having cast on Pippo a rapid and curious glance, the negress took a
few steps backward, and skilfully threw up into the balcony a little
box rolled in paper, and then promptly fled, turning round from time
to time. Pippo picked up the box, opened it, and found a pretty purse
wrapt in cotton. He rightly suspected that he might find under the
cotton a note that would explain this adventure. The note was found
indeed, but it was as mysterious as the rest, for it contained only
these words: "Do not spend too readily what I enclose herein; when you
leave home, charge me with one piece of gold. It is enough for one
day; and if in the evening you have any of it left, however little, it
may be you will find some poor person who will thank you for it."
The young man examined the box in a hundred different ways,
scrutinized the purse, looked once more on to the quay, and at length
realized that he had learned all he could. "Of a truth," thought he,
"this is a strange present, but it comes at a cruelly awkward moment.
The advice they give me is good, but it is too late to tell people to
swim when they are already at the bottom of the Adriatic. Who the
devil could have sent me this?"