“Listen to me, my dear Titian,” said the prince, in a tone of cordial intimacy, “you are not ignorant (for every thing is known at a court), that it was the surpassing beauty of my wife which induced me to marry her, and you will easily believe how much it will gratify me, if by your pencil her charms are rendered immortal. I know not whether the ducal mantle will be allowed to fall at your request, this favour it must be your task to obtain of the Duchess, but understand me well, great master, that my ardent desire is that by your talent I should be possessed of the faithful copy of those transcendent charms, which have so enslaved me; and divested of all veil or drapery, as though reflected in a mirror, such as are seen in your delightful paintings--so that in after times, when she is represented (such as I knew and adored her), it may be said, ‘her beauty was perfect; he was not to blame for marrying her!’” “Monsignore,” replied Titian, “although the artist sees and thinks only as of a model, in the woman who is before him, were she a queen, yet I will confess to your Highness, that I have so seldom seen the Duchess since I have had the honour of residing at your court, and at such times she has appeared to look on me with so much coldness and dignity, that even by your order, I never could venture to prescribe what attitude and costume would be most suitable: and I really think that this would be best intimated by your Highness.” “Not at all, my dear Titian, you know nothing of women. It suffices that a husband wishes one thing, for them to press another. What objections, what remonstrances, what reproaches I should have to endure! She would insist that I had ceased to love her, and was no longer jealous--whilst you would only speak as the painter, and would be listened to and believed, for when Titian had said ‘On my honour, Madam, I can make you a Venus,’ where is the woman who could oppose him? In short, Titian, you know my wishes, do the best you can; the Duchess expects you;” and in fact the Prince had scarcely left the room, when two pages announced that the Duchess of Ferrara waited for him. In a room richly embellished with all the luxury of art, and which would have inspired Ariosto with the enchantment of Armida’s palace, the Duchess reclined on cushions, which yielded to every movement, a young page of such beauty as is described in Raphael’s angels, gently waved a fan of peacock’s feathers, and a little Ethiopian slave knelt at his mistress’s feet, as though placed there in order to display the whiteness of her skin by the contrast. Into this scene Titian followed his conductor, but was struck dumb, and seized as if with vertigo: he thought himself transported into some region of fancy. On a sign from their mistress a seat, the easel, the palette, the pencils and the colours were presented to the artist, and the attendants lowly bowing withdrew, leaving Titian and the Duchess alone.