Palladian Days (31 page)

“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 America 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 original. 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.

Villa Emo has the unique distinction of having remained in the Emo family, descending in male lines, since it was built almost 450 years ago. The original patron of the villa expressed in his will a special request that the villa be retained in the family.

Where are the new Dick Rushes? What sense of art or history, what zest for challenge, what concern for posterity will stir them to step forward, gather these unstrung pearls, and return them to their natural glow? I cannot argue with the proposition that restoration does not always make economic sense. On the other hand, beauty offers one of our few escapes from the imperatives of economics and good sense.

Almost everyone enjoys a good mystery novel. For me they're a quick snack, like peanut butter and crackers. Late at night, when I'm tired but not ready for sleep, I'll retrieve a Josephine Tey or a Laurie King from the bookcase beside our bed. Like my father before me, I grade each book inside the front cover with an A, B, C, or D, and I don't mind rereading an
“A.”
So my encounters with the real-life mysteries of Villa Cornaro are especially satisfying.

The first mystery is the purpose of the underground passages. Until the parish church acquired Villa Cornaro in 1951 for use as a kindergarten, there were two two-hundred-foot-long passageways running underground from the
cantina
to the bank of the lake south of the villa. One of them ran from the base of each of the villa's brick stairwells. The priest wisely bricked up the passageways at each end; otherwise he would have had an endless stream of kindergarten children cavorting through the tunnels at all hours.

“Secret passages!” The reaction of all three of our children is the same. “Let's open them and see what's there!”

Carl is unmoved. “Scorpions,” he says. “That's what's in there. Scorpions and spiders.”

Frankly, I would like to see what's in there myself. For now, I simply enjoy the mystery: Why are the tunnels there? Our friends in Piombino Dese suggest answers. Ilario proposes that the tunnels were for escape in case the villa was attacked by brigands. This seems unlikely to me, since the tunnels were not really long enough to carry one to safety from attackers. Ernesto Formentin plausibly suggests that the tunnels provided access to water for washing out wine casks in the
cantina
. My own conclusion is that the tunnels were designed primarily for air-conditioning. Carl thinks I have hit it on the head. Convection currents rising in the stairwells on warm days would draw cool air from the lake, bringing it through the tunnels and into the villa. Palladio does not mention such a cooling technique in
Tour Books
, but the concept was definitely known and used in his period. I got the idea from visiting La Rocca, a villa designed by Vincenzo Scamozzi, but a somewhat similar device can be found at Jacopo Sansovino's Villa Garzoni at Pontecasale, which predates Villa Cornaro by five or ten years.

Several other mysteries crop up in the grand salon on the first floor of the villa. The first is the function of the twelve little shelves, or
mensole
, protruding at intervals along the walls. We ask everyone for suggestions as to what they might have held.

“Busts,” says one. “Small busts of family ancestors.” That would be a more compelling possibility if the room did not also have six giant statues of family ancestors.