"de Musset, Alfred - Tizianello" - читать интересную книгу автора (Musset Alfred De)

their first kisses.
If Beatrice was a daughter of the Loredanos, the gentle blood of her mother,
Bianca Contarini, also flowed in her veins. Never was there a better creature in
the world than this mother, who was also one of the beauties of Venice. Always
happy and pleasant, thinking only of living in peace, but in times of war loving
her country, Bianca seemed the elder sister of her daughters. She died young,
and dead, was still beautiful.
It was through her that Beatrice had learned to understand and to love art, and
especially painting. Not that the young widow became very learned on this
subject. She had been to Rome and to Florence and the masterpieces of
Michelangelo had only inspired her with curiosity. As a Roman, she loved
Raphael; but as a daughter of the Adriatic, she preferred Titian. While all
around her every one was busy with the intrigues of the court or the affairs of
the republic, she was bothered only about new pictures and as to what her
favorite art would become after the death of old Vecellio. She had seen in the
Dolfino Palace the picture of which I spoke at the beginning of this story, the
only one that Tizianello had painted, and which had perished in a fire. After
having admired this canvas, she had met Pippo at the Signora Dorothee's and had
been seized with an irresistible love for him.
Painting in the time of Julius II. and Leo X. was not a business as it is
to-day. It was a religion for the artists, an enlightened taste for the great
nobles, a glory for Italy, and a passion for women. When a pope left the Vatican
to visit Buonarotti, the daughter of a Venetian noble could love Tizianello
without shame. But Beatrice had conceived an idea that elevated and emboldened
her passion. She wished to make of Pippo more than her lover; she wished to make
of him a great painter. She knew the dissipated life he led and had resolved to
draw him away from it. She knew that in him, despite his follies, the sacred
fire of Art was not dead but merely covered with cinders and she hoped that love
might revive the divine spark.She had hesitated for a whole year, cherishing
this idea in secret, meeting Pippo from time to time and looking at his windows
when she passed along the quay. A whim had led her on: she had been unable to
resist the temptation to embroider a purse and send it to him. She had promised
herself, it is true, to go no further and never to attempt more. But when the
Signora Dorothee had shown her the verses that Pippo had written for her, she
had wept tears of joy. She was aware of the risk she was taking in trying to
realize her dream, but it was the dream of a woman, and she had said on leaving
her houseЧ" What a woman wishes, God wills."
Led and sustained by this thought, by her love and by her sincerity, she felt
herself under the shelter of her fear. In kneeling before Pippo, she had just
made her first prayer to love, but after the sacrifice of her pride, the
impatient god asked of her another. She hesitated no more about becoming the
mistress of Tizianello than if she had been his wife.
She removed her veil and placed it on a statue of Venus that was in the room;
then, as beautiful and as pale as the marble goddess, she abandoned herself to
Fate.
She spent the day with Pippo, as had been arranged. At sunset the gondola that
had brought her came to take her away. She left as secretly as she had entered.
The servants had been sent off, under various pretexts, and the porter alone
remained in the house. Accustomed to his master's manner of life, he was not
surprised to see a masked woman cross the gallery with Pippo. But when he saw