Sometimes over the velvety calm of Venice and the lagoon will roll up a thunder storm. The radiant color becomes more sombrely rich under the tossing clouds. Their steely edges break into the lightning flash; domes and towers for a moment stagger under the lashing of the rain squall. The storm passes, the leaden clouds show saffron backs against the blue, the evening is here with double serenity and purity. Such is Jacopo Tintoretto amid the reflective tranquility, and confident splendors of Venetian painting—a wind of the spirit, a shattering, yet consoling, apparition. Tenderness, tragedy, romance, are his realm. Where his contemporaries dealt in superb averages, he deals in transcendent exceptions. Thus he has ever been a baffling figure to the critics. For the febrile Ruskin, he is among the greatest of painters; for the coolly analytical Kenyon Cox, he is little better than a reckless sensationalist. Every one, friend or foe of his art, must admit its Shakespearean richness and variety. He lacks Titian’s Olympian poise, but is more universal. [Illustration: FIG. 294. Tintoretto. Tithonus and Aurora. Tempera color sketch.—_British Museum._ ] Jacopo Robusti,[84] the dyer’s son, was born in Venice in 1518. At seventeen he was put with Titian. Once passing through the studio Titian saw on the floor a number of Tintoretto’s sketches. Not trusting himself to speak, he sent word that the newcomer should never again enter his studio. An act which contemporary gossip ascribed to jealousy, is rather to be referred to disgust at Tintoretto’s unbridled vehemence. Whoever has studied Tintoretto’s tempera sketches, Figure 294, in the British Museum may realize how Titian felt. The sketches are superb, but Titian in 1535 was in no way to realize their value. Twenty years later he may have appreciated them. [Illustration: FIG. 295. Tintoretto. Presentation of Virgin in the Temple.—_S. M. dell’ Orto._ ]