Palladian Days Read online

  “None of them came back,” Epifanio says quietly. “Two died in an industrial accident in the factory where they were placed. The other died in a bombing raid on his factory, just ten days before the end of the war.”

  “Who did the bombing?”

  “Americans, I think.”

  More than a score of boys and young men were taken from Piombino Dese that morning. The knocking came at front doors throughout the town and surrounding countryside.

  Epifanio tells his tale of that July 1 with a kind of wonder in his voice. “My father worked for the sindaco of Piombino Dese during those years. He was a chauffeur and worked around the sindaco's house. The sindaco knew everyone in town; he was the one who gave the Germans the list.”

  “Why? Why would he do that, especially to the family of his own employee?” I ask in amazement.

  “Un fascista,” he replies simply.

  Epifanio is in his eighties now, living quietly with Elena in retirement in a modest home on the street that leads from the villa to the train station. Often I spot him and wave as I hurry to the station for a trip into Venice. I can see in his face that after all these decades since July 1,1944, he still cannot fathom what hatred, cynicism, desperation, or depravity precipitated the events of that day.

  The postwar years were cruel in the Veneto. “Find food for today” was the imperative of each morning. I think of Giacomo's story of his father desperately fishing for food when other resources failed, and of Ilario's emigration to Australia to relieve the strain on his family.

  Now, in a strange reversal, the Veneto is the fastest-growing region in all of Europe. Prosperity abounds on all sides. Yet I am sure that the Piombinesi have their appreciation of the present anchored in their collective memory of the past. The Italian celebration of food is often noted. Surely a great part of it is grounded in the knowledge that today's food must be enjoyed because tomorrow's food is uncertain. In the same way, the overwhelming reliance on family ties must be influenced by experiences like July l, 1944, when trust in the more extended circle of political leadership, community, and friendship failed.

  46

  Camtllo Mariani

  My father, a Scot by birth who lived most of his life in New Hampshire, always carried in his jacket pocket a wad of photographs of the primitive nineteenth-century New England paintings that he had collected—portraits mostly, a few landscapes, an occasional still life. The paintings crowded the walls of our Main Street house when I was growing up. Daddy eagerly displayed his photographs to everyone he met who showed even a slight interest in American portraiture. The subjects of the paintings looking down from the walls of our New England home—a sea captain and his wife from Bedford, a serious young girl from Concord named May Hill, and many others—became for him an extended family.

  In this one way, the grand salon on the first floor of Villa Cornaro sometimes reminds me of my Littleton home. The portraits in the grand salon are not paintings, of course, but full-figure statues executed in marmorino, a type of stucco. Each of them measures eight feet tall and is set in its own niche in the wall. Palladio planned for the statues from the beginning; the niches are clearly shown on the floor plan in his Four Books. The Pisani family at Palladio's Villa Pisani at Montagnana elected to use the four similar niches there for statues representing the seasons of the year. The Cornaros took a different tack. After the original patron Giorgio Cornaro died, his son Girolamo in the early 1590s commissioned Camillo Mariani to create statues of illustrious Cornaros of the past.

  It was a typical Cornaro gesture. The Cornaros loved paintings and busts of themselves. If their public offices did not generate enough portraiture, they were always ready to commission something on their own.

  The two earliest figures among the statues at Villa Cornaro are of Marco Cornaro, who became doge of Venice in 1365, and his grandson Giorgio, who died a hero of the Republic in 1434 after being captured in battle and tortured in a Milan prison. There are two of Giorgio's grandchildren. Giorgio's granddaughter Caterina Cornaro, queen of Cyprus, is shown, of course, together with her brother, who was also named Giorgio. This Giorgio was so influential in Venetian affairs that he was acclaimed as “father of his country” more than two hundred years before George Washington was born. Giorgio's son Girolamo fills the next niche. The last holds the third Giorgio, the one who commissioned Palladio to design and build the villa.

  Statues in the grand salon, lower piano nobile, with the villa's patron, Giorgio Cornaro, at left

  The southern wall of the grand salon, opening onto the south portico, fills the room with light and warmth from its huge doorway and eight windows, four below and four above. The other walls each hold two of the niches and statues. Because of the four large columns supporting the ceiling and upper floor, the six statues are visible simultaneously from just one spot in the room, a position about four feet into the room from the north. The effect on a visitor standing at that place in the early days must have been profound—to be confronted by six legendary heroes of the republic, all larger than life, leaning outward from their niches with animated hand gestures and sharp gazes. Together they make up the earliest full-figure portrait gallery of one family in western art.

  Like Caravaggio on canvas, Mariani strove for lifelike portraiture. His Caterina seems poised to speak. His first Giorgio embodies patience and forbearance in features and stance. To arrive at the likenesses, Mariani would have studied earlier commemorative medallions and, when available, contemporary paintings.

  Camillo Mariani was born in Vicenza in 1567, two years after Michelanglo's death in Rome. He trained in Vicenza in the workshop of Agostino Rubini, but his talent was recognized early by the architect Vincenzo Scamozzi and others, and he was entrusted with important commissions. He was just twenty-one years old when he sculpted three of the marble statues that look down on Piazza di San Marco in Venice from atop the Marciana Library. Soon he had his own workshop and was creating statues for Palladio's basilica and the church of San Pietro in Vicenza.

  His six statues at Villa Cornaro can be viewed as a culmination of his work in the Veneto. First, the project marks his important role in the introduction to the Veneto of marmorino as a medium for sculpture. Second, it marks Mariani as a bridge from the Renaissance to the Baroque. In 1597, ready for a bigger stage, Mariani moved his workshop to Rome, where he was immediately accepted as a leading figure in its artistic world and tapped for works throughout the city. Pope Clement VIII commissioned him to execute several statues in marmorino for his chapel in Saint Peter's Basilica. Mariani's statues for the church of San Bernardo alle Terme and for Villa Cornaro are sometimes called his master-works. Although Mariani died young, at age forty-four, he is viewed as an important influence on Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Italy's greatest sculptor of the seventeenth century, because Bernini's father and mentor, Pietro Bernini, trained in Mariani's workshop.

  In quiet moments from time to time I sit in the grand salon studying the statues. Sometimes I feel as if I were at a Cornaro family reunion, with these famous Cornaros jabbering and socializing around me. At other times I focus on the short, brilliant career of Camillo Mariani and the treasures that Villa Cornaro is privileged to share with the historic churches and chapels of Rome.

  47

  Unstrung Pearls

  At 2:00 a.m. the squillo (ring) of the telephone in Atlanta sounds more like a strillo (scream). Carl nudges me to answer the phone; it's on my side of the bed. My heart pounds with trepidation. What calamity is being announced? Where are the children?

  “Signora Gable,” a distant voice says. “Vorrebbero vedere la villa i vostri amictf Would your friends like to see the villa?” What villa? What friends? My mind struggles to file these random questions.

  My brain manages to construct an Italian response: “Excuse me, but who is this?”

  “Villa Valmarana, signora. Sono il proprietario! I am the owner!” the voice explains. “You and your husband visited me last month. You said a friend in Am
erica was interested in buying a Pal-ladian villa. I want to know if they are coming.”

  At last I'm beginning to make sense of everything—except why this call is coming at 2:00 a.m. During our last stay in the Veneto, Carl and I heard that Villa Valmarana was for sale; with a phone call ahead, we drive over for a visit. Friends of ours in Atlanta have expressed a vague interest in acquiring one of Palladio's villas, so we decide that a conversation with the owner and a careful new look at the villa is in order.

  This is actually the second time we have visited Villa Valmarana, and we hope that the owner will not remember the circumstances of our first encounter. On that occasion we arrived unannounced and simply looked into the grounds from the street. Carl tried to photograph the villa from a corner of the property, but his view was obscured by the lower branches of a fruit tree about twenty-five feet away. A little guiltily—we would have frowned at anyone doing the same thing at our villa—he decided to climb atop a broken masonry fence post in order to get a clear shot. Suddenly he jumped down, grabbed my arm, and—amid my protests—began walking rapidly away. I wondered if we were being chased by wasps. Finally, I realized that Carl was struggling to keep from laughing. When we had turned the corner and were hidden from sight of the villa, he could contain himself no longer.

  “The tree,” he gasped. “The tree.”

  “What about it?” I asked in exasperation.

  “There's someone sitting in the tree!”

  I peered cautiously around the corner, trying to remain unseen. At last I perceived that there was indeed a man sitting in the tree like a latter-day Yossarian. I concluded that he must be pruning some of the upper limbs.

  “I think that's the owner up the tree,” Carl said. “I hope my photo comes out.”

  Our second visit to the villa is not humorous but sad.

  Villa Valmarana is not pictured or described by Palladio in Four Books. The attribution to Palladio is based primarily on an early floor plan that scholars have uncovered among Palladio's original drawings, most of which are now in the collection of the Royal Institute of British Architects, known as RIBA. However, the villa's facade as built departs awkwardly from Palladio's rendering. One hypothesis is that the patrons—two brothers—encountered a spring on the site and, because they were unable to excavate a basement as planned, added an extra floor above in order to get the storage space they needed. Also, the interior has suffered extensive changes through the years. Carl and I discover during our inspection visit that the villa needs enormous restoration work to bring it to comfortable modern standards. The present owner, whose grandfather bought the villa in the late nineteenth century, supports it through farming and the hosting of wedding receptions in the grand salon. My mind visualizes how the villa might look if restored. The vast attic intrigues me. I can imagine an easy division of the space into at least four spacious bedrooms—perfect for a large family.

  Not surprisingly, our Atlanta friends are not inclined to take on such a project.

  The signore is disappointed when I tell him the news, but reacts with typical Italian resilience. “Well, perhaps you will have other friends who want to own a Palladian villa,” he says in closing.

  Slightly north of Villa Valmarana lies an abandoned gem of Palladio, Villa Forni. Forni is my favorite of the lesser-known villas; its petite, degraded face bears such a regal air that I can close my eyes and envision it in pristine, beloved condition.

  I decide to show it to Ashley when she is visiting Piombino Dese this summer. Do I think she'll make a fortune as a television writer and want her own Palladian property in Italy? Do I imagine she will incorporate it into one of her scripts? Do I anticipate that she'll make a movie someday and use Villa Forni as a mysterious backdrop? Maybe all of the above. But I also know she will love it as I do—because of its architectural beauty and its need for affection.

  We drive to Vicenza via Castelfranco and Cittadella and turn north toward Montecchio Precalcino. Heading north, we reach an abrupt left turn just before a bridge and wind along a country road, ultimately spotting our prize huddling between two farm buildings. An ugly fourteen-foot-tall bully of a tree crowds the gently rising entrance steps, the front door hangs ajar, vines grasp at the cantina walls. Yet the arched opening to the portico embraced by two rectangular apertures (a “Serlian motif,” architects would say), with sentient window-eyes above and crowned with a graceful pediment, begs us to enter. I can hear the villa whispering, Please come in, take care of me!

  The front gate is locked. We can rouse neither neighbor to inquire about an entrance fee. So we walk along the dirt side road and spy a gaping hole in the ancient brick wall. Surely this is meant for us! I would not want walk-in tourists at Villa Cornaro, of course, but Villa Cornaro does not lie abandoned. We enter the cantina door, fight back ivy tendrils, and wander upstairs. An enormous tree grows from the cantina out through a side window of the piano nobile.

  Like Villa Valmarana, Villa Forni is absent from Four Books; its Palladian origin is deduced from a drawing at RIBA. Unlike Valmarana, however, Villa Forni does not suffer from deviations in its construction. Its coherent, rational floor plan makes clear that careful restoration would produce a Palladian jewel.

  Carl and I develop a great curiosity to see the front facade of Villa Zen. Villa Zen is another of the Palladian villas that stand empty, although it would be unfair to say that it is abandoned. The villa, owned by a prominent family of Venice and Rome, sits on a large, actively managed farm property in a remote area far east of Tre-viso. On our first expedition to Villa Zen we were able to see the rear of the structure, which sits back from a narrow twisty highway, but we were frustrated by a large and securely locked gate in our effort to see the front.

  Over time I've become quite brazen about phoning complete strangers to ask if Carl and I may come see their home. In this case, a member of the family responds graciously to my request and agrees to have someone meet us at the villa for a tour.

  I drive while Carl navigates. We pass Marco Polo Airport and catch the A4 autostrada north, zipping up to the Cessalto exit. With a map in his lap, Carl unerringly directs me into the town and then back across the expressway, where we follow our noses to Villa Zen. Zen fronts on the Piovan Canal, though it has been separated from the canal for some time by an old eight-foot brick wall and a barrier of overgrown evergreens.

  Our host, patiently awaiting us when we arrive, turns out to be a member of the owner's family. A slender man in his late thirties with thick, short silver hair and white, even teeth, he thoughtfully speaks Italian slowly for us. It is obvious that he understands English to some degree as well. He unlocks the gate and leads us around to the front of the villa. We push our way through knee-high weeds with a small, three-leaved plant peeping through. Note to diary: Check for poison ivy rash tomorrow.

  Carl and I are exhilarated to see the front of Villa Zen at last. As we expected, the facade is articulated with the three-arch motif that characterizes most of Palladio's early work, but photographs have not prepared us for the height of the arches, which are dramatically taller than those we have seen elsewhere. Above the arches is a simple pediment punctuated by a small window, probably a later addition. The intonaco is in bad shape, with weeds encroaching on every surface. Uncontrolled vegetation and tall trees of numerous varieties guard the environs like undisciplined, ill-uniformed soldiers, frustrating our effort to discern the design of any garden lingering from the past.

  We enter the villa through a small door opening into a dark, square room, one of seven rooms on the first level. Palladio would have wept. The floor is paved in concrete; crumbling walls and ugly doors, recently installed for security, mark the spaces. Our guide leads us up six short flights of stairs to the second floor, where we wander through the bleak spaces, dim light struggling to pierce the dilapidated shutters. A long, narrow central salone is flanked by six smaller rooms, three on either side. A blocked fireplace stands at one end of the large room, but does not look origi
nal. Wiring from early in the history of household electricity runs along the walls like bunting left from a party held long ago.

  The others continue up into the attic via rickety stairs, while I wait in the gloom, imagining the spaces as they must have appeared in 1560. The Zen family never lived here, at least not longer than several months, and no other family ever assumed long-term residency, either. Che peccato! What a shame!

  Villa Pisani at Bagnolo, a beautifully restored villa near Vicenza, was recently sold after centuries in the same family. Villa Chieri-cati, perhaps Palladio's earliest use of the Greek-temple-front motif—that is, with a single row of freestanding columns supporting a classical pediment—stands empty now like Forni and Zen, we read in the Padua edition of II Gazzettino. Carl and I resolve that we will try to arrange a visit in the near future; we have seen only the exterior.

  Contessa Emo visits me for tea one afternoon. She is the mother of the present Count Emo, owner of Villa Emo, one of the villas that Carl and I consider the Big Five. A tall, erect, handsome woman, the contessa is American-born, living now in Florence. She speaks of the maintenance expenses at Villa Emo and of her son's money-raising schemes, all of which she seems to disapprove.

  The Count recently outfitted the east barchessa of Villa Emo as a restaurant, hiring an expensive chef away from a prominent hotel in Asolo and stocking impressive wines. He also spent tanti soldi— a lot of money—creating guest rooms on the estate, convinced he could turn Villa Emo into a country inn.

  The restaurant was an exceptionally fine one, and Carl and I were regular customers. My favorite evening there was in the company of my friend Kathy from Atlanta—but we were the only guests. Now the restaurant is closed, the inn is closed, and Villa Emo is for sale.