University of Virginia Library

33. LETTER XXXIII.

We have passed a day in visiting palaces. There
are some eight or ten in Venice, whose galleries are
still splendid. We landed first at the stairs of the
Palazzo Grimani, and were received by an old family
servant, who sat leaning on his knees, and gazing idly
into the canal. The court and staircase were ornamented
with statuary, that had not been moved for
centuries. In the ante-room was a fresco painting by
Georgione, in which there were two female cherubs,
the first of that sex I ever saw represented. They
were beautifully contrasted with the two male cherubs,
who completed the picture, and reminded me strongly
of Greenough's group in sculpture. After examining
several rooms, tapestried and furnished in such a style
as befitted the palace of a Venetian noble, when Venice
was in her glory, we passed on to the gallery. The
best picture in the first room was a large one by Cigoli,
the bath of Cleopatra. The four attendants of the
fair Egyptian are about her, and one is bathing her
feet from a rich vase. Her figure is rather a voluptuous
one, and her head is turned, but without alarm,
to Antony, who is just putting aside the curtain and
entering the room. It is a piece of fine coloring,
rather of the Titian school, and one of the few good
pictures left by the English, who have bought up almost
all the private galleries of Venice.

We stopped next at the stairs of the noble old Barberigo
Palace, in which Titian lived and died. We
mounted the decaying staircases, imagining the choice
spirits of the great painter's time, who had trodden
them before us, and (as it was for ages the dwelling of
one of the proudest races of Venice) the beauty and
rank that had swept up and down those worn slabs of
marble on nights of revel, in the days when Venice
was a paradise of splendid pleasure. How thickly
come romantic fancies in such a place as this. We
passed through halls hung with neglected pictures to
an inner room, occupied only with those of Titian.
Here he painted, and here is a picture half-finished,
as he left it when he died. His famous Magdalen,
hangs on the wall, covered with dirt; and so, indeed,
is everything in the palace. The neglect is melancholy.
On a marble table stood a plaster bust of Titian,
moulded by himself in his old age. It is a most noble
head, and it is difficult to look at it and believe he
could have painted a picture which hangs just against
it — his own daughter in the arms of a satyr. There
is an engraving from it in one of the souvenirs; but
instead of the satyr's head, she holds a casket in her
hands, which, though it does not sufficiently account
for the delight of her countenance, is an improvement
upon the original. Here, too, are several slight
sketches of female heads, by the same master. Oh
how beautiful they are! There is one, less than the
size of life, which I would rather have than his Magdalen.

I have spent my last day in Venice in visiting
churches. Their splendor makes the eye ache and
the imagination weary. You would think the surplus
wealth of half the empires of the world would scarce
suffice to fill them as they are. I can give you no
descriptions. The gorgeous tombs of the doges are
interesting, and the plain black monument over Marino
Faliero made me linger. Canova's tomb is splendid;
and the simple slab under your feet in the church
of the Frari, where Titian lies with his brief epitaph,
is affecting — but, though I shall remember all these,
the simplest as well as the grandest, a description
would be wearisome to all who had not seen them.
This evening at sunset I start in the post-boat for the
mainland, on my way to the place of Juliet's tomb —
Verona. My friends, the painters, are so attracted
with the galleries here that they remain to copy, and
I go back alone. Take a short letter from me this
time, and expect to hear from me by the next earliest
opportunity, and more at length. Adieu.