CHAPTER I.--THE STUDIO.


It was on a bright afternoon in spring, and very near the close of the
sixteenth century, that a handsome youth, of slender form and patrician
aspect, was seated and drawing before an easel in the studio of the aged
cavaliere Giovanni Contarini--the last able and distinguished painter of
the long-declining school of Titian. The studio was a spacious and lofty
saloon, commanding a cheerful view over the grand canal. Full curtains of
crimson damask partially shrouded the lofty windows, intercepting the
superabundant light, and diffusing tints resembling the ruddy, soft, and
melancholy hues of autumnal foliage; while these hues were further
deepened by a richly carved ceiling of ebony, which, not reflecting but
absorbing light, allayed the sunny radiance beneath, and imparted a sombre
yet brilliant effect to the pictured walls, and glossy draperies, of the
spacious apartment. Above the rich and lofty mantelpiece hung one of the
last portraits of himself painted by the venerable Titian, and on the dark
pannels around were suspended portraits of great men and lovely women by
the gifted hands of Giorgione, Paul Veronese, Paris Bordone, and
Tintoretto. Regardless, however, of all around him, and almost breathless
with eagerness and impatience, the student pursued his object, and with
rapid and vigorous strokes had half completed his sketch--totally
unconcious the while that some one had opened the folding-doors, crossed
the saloon, and now stood behind his chair.

"But tell me, Antonello mio!" exclaimed old Contarini, after gazing awhile
in mute astonishment at the sketch before him; "tell me, in the name of
wonder, what kind of face do you mean to draw around that lean and
withered nose and that horribly wrinkled mouth?"