DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68745#0049
THE MAN AND HIS LIFE
frequenter of the house, and so was Alessandro Vittoria, whose
portrait busts are still so common in Venice. Vittoria was a
great gardener, and would come fresh from his evening’s work in
his garden in the Calle di Pieta. There, too, was often to be met
Paolo Caliari, the Veronese, a magnificent person, yet one far
more eager than his host about the market value of his work.
He was a man who lived sumptuously, loving the bravery
of palaces and courts, dressed splendidly and ‘ always wore
velvet breeches,’ and who, despite his being twenty-six years
younger than Tintoretto, shot into a position of the first order
with much greater rapidity. But between these two there was
no rivalry. They worked together as good friends, and not all
the gorgeous entertainments of Venice could keep Caliari away
from the pleasant evening gatherings in Tintoretto’s modest home.
Poor Andrea Schiavone, too, was always a welcome guest.
Tintoretto never forgot his early friend, whose life was one long
piece of ill luck for which it is difficult to account, and who in
spite of conspicuous talent, which ought to have assured him
prosperity, was disreputable and ragged and sometimes on the
verge of starvation. As she grew towards womanhood, his
daughter Marietta became his dearest companion, his pride and
joy. She had early shown great talent for painting, and had been
carefully trained by her father. She was his constant companion
when he was working, and used to accompany him about the
city to the churches and palaces on which he was engaged,
dressed, for greater convenience, in boy’s clothes.
We can fancy Veronese coming to the evening gatherings in
his gondola, and Alessandro the sculptor from his garden round
the corner, to find their host after his long day’s work, ready to
join in with his lute, full of good sayings and quips, ‘uttered
with a grave face, without a smile.’ We can picture the fair
young daughters of the host and their handsome mother, leaning
from the tall pointed windows to wave good-night to the departing
guests, while the white moonlight pours upon the marble facade
of the little palazzo, and the chimes of S. Madonna dell’ Orto ring
out some late hour of the night.
The old house on the Rio dell’ Orto is full of memories.
Somewhere here was the studio, where, withdrawn from the life
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frequenter of the house, and so was Alessandro Vittoria, whose
portrait busts are still so common in Venice. Vittoria was a
great gardener, and would come fresh from his evening’s work in
his garden in the Calle di Pieta. There, too, was often to be met
Paolo Caliari, the Veronese, a magnificent person, yet one far
more eager than his host about the market value of his work.
He was a man who lived sumptuously, loving the bravery
of palaces and courts, dressed splendidly and ‘ always wore
velvet breeches,’ and who, despite his being twenty-six years
younger than Tintoretto, shot into a position of the first order
with much greater rapidity. But between these two there was
no rivalry. They worked together as good friends, and not all
the gorgeous entertainments of Venice could keep Caliari away
from the pleasant evening gatherings in Tintoretto’s modest home.
Poor Andrea Schiavone, too, was always a welcome guest.
Tintoretto never forgot his early friend, whose life was one long
piece of ill luck for which it is difficult to account, and who in
spite of conspicuous talent, which ought to have assured him
prosperity, was disreputable and ragged and sometimes on the
verge of starvation. As she grew towards womanhood, his
daughter Marietta became his dearest companion, his pride and
joy. She had early shown great talent for painting, and had been
carefully trained by her father. She was his constant companion
when he was working, and used to accompany him about the
city to the churches and palaces on which he was engaged,
dressed, for greater convenience, in boy’s clothes.
We can fancy Veronese coming to the evening gatherings in
his gondola, and Alessandro the sculptor from his garden round
the corner, to find their host after his long day’s work, ready to
join in with his lute, full of good sayings and quips, ‘uttered
with a grave face, without a smile.’ We can picture the fair
young daughters of the host and their handsome mother, leaning
from the tall pointed windows to wave good-night to the departing
guests, while the white moonlight pours upon the marble facade
of the little palazzo, and the chimes of S. Madonna dell’ Orto ring
out some late hour of the night.
The old house on the Rio dell’ Orto is full of memories.
Somewhere here was the studio, where, withdrawn from the life
21