It was between four and five hundred years ago that Venice sat most
proudly on her throne as Queen of the Sea. She had the greatest fleet
in all the Mediterranean. She bought and sold more than any other
nation. She had withstood the shock of battle and conquered all her
foes, and now she had time to deck herself with all the beauty which
art and wealth could produce.
The merchants of Venice sailed to every port and carried with them
wonderful shiploads of goods, for which their city was famous--silks,
velvets, lace, and rich brocades. The secret of the marvellous Tyrian
dyes had been discovered by her people, and there were many dyers in
Venice who were specially famous for the purple dye of Tyre, which was
thought to be the most beautiful in all the world. Then too they had
learned the art of blowing glass into fairy-like forms, as delicate and
light as a bubble, catching in it every shade of colour, and twisting
it into a hundred exquisite shapes. Truly there had never been a richer
or more beautiful city than this Queen of the Sea.
It was just when the glory of Venice was at its highest that Art too
reached its height, and Giorgione and Titian began to paint the walls
of her palaces and the altarpieces of her churches.
In the very centre of the city where the poorer Venetians had their
houses, there lived about this time a man called Battista Robusti who
was a dyer, or 'tintore,' as he is called in Italy. It was his little
son Jacopo who afterwards became such a famous artist. His
grand-sounding name 'Tintoretto' means nothing but 'the little dyer,'
and it was given to him because of his father's trade.
Tintoretto must have been brought up in the midst of gorgeous colours.
Not only did he see the wonderful changing tints of the outside world,
but in his father's workshop he must often have watched the rich
Venetian stuffs lifted from the dye vats, heavy with the crimson and
purple shades for which Venice was famous. Perhaps all this glowing
colour wearied his young eyes, for when he grew to be a man his
pictures show that he loved solemn and dark tones, though he could also
paint the most brilliant colours when he chose.
Of course, the boy Tintoretto began by painting the walls of his
father's house, as soon as he was old enough to learn the use of dyes
and paints. Even if he had not had in him the artist soul, he could
scarcely have resisted the temptation to spread those lovely colours on
the smooth white walls. Any child would have done the same, but
Tintoretto's mischievous fingers already showed signs of talent, and
his father, instead of scolding him for wasting colours and spoiling
the walls, encouraged him to go on with his pictures.
As the boy grew older, his great delight was to wander about the city
and watch the men at work building new palaces. But especially did he
linger near those walls which Titian and Giorgione were covering with
their wonderful frescoes. High on the scaffolding he would see the
painters at work, and as he watched the boy would build castles in the
air, and dream dreams of a time when he too would be a master-painter,
and be bidden by Venice to decorate her walls.
To Tintoretto's mind Titian was the greatest man in all the world, and
to be taught by him the greatest honour that heart could wish. So it
was perhaps the happiest day in all his life when his father decided to
take him to Titian's studio and ask the master to receive him as a
pupil.
But the happiness lasted but a very short time. Titian did not approve
of the boy's work, and refused to keep him in the studio; so poor,
disappointed Tintoretto went home again, and felt as if all sunshine
and hope had gone for ever from his life. It was a bitter
disappointment to his father and mother too, for they had set their
hearts on the boy becoming an artist. But in spite of all this,
Tintoretto did not lose heart or give up his dreams. He worked on by
himself in his own way, and Titian's paintings taught him many things
even though the master himself refused to help him. Then too he saw
some work of the great Michelangelo, and learned many a lesson from
that. Thenceforward his highest ideal was always 'the drawing of
Michelangelo and the colour of Titian.
The young artist lived in a poor, bare room, and most of his money went
in the buying of little pieces of old sculpture or casts. He had a very
curious way of working the designs for his pictures. Instead of drawing
many sketches, he made little wax models of figures and arranged them
inside a cardboard or wooden box in which there was a hole to admit a
lighted candle. So, besides the grouping of the figures, he could also
arrange the light and shade.
But, though he worked hard, fame was long in coming to Tintoretto.
People did not understand his way of painting. It was not after the
manner of any of the great artists, and they were rather afraid of his
bold, furious-looking work.
Nevertheless Tintoretto worked steadily on, always hoping, and whenever
there was a chance of doing any work, even without receiving payment
for it, he seized it eagerly.
It happened just then that the young Venetian artists had agreed to
have a show of their paintings, and had hired a room for the exhibition
in the Merceria, the busiest part of Venice.
Tintoretto was very glad of the chance of showing his work, so he sent
in a portrait of himself and also one of his brother. As soon as these
pictures were seen people began to take more notice of the clever young
painter, and even Titian allowed that his work was good. His portraits
were always fresh and life-like, and he drew with a bold strong touch,
as you will see if you look at the drawing I have shown you--the head
of a Venetian boy, such as Tintoretto met daily among the fisher-folk
of Venice.
From that time Fortune began to smile on Tintoretto. Little by little
work began to come in. He was asked to paint altarpieces for the
churches, and even at last, when his name became famous, he was invited
to work upon the walls of the Ducal Palace, the highest honour which a
Venetian painter could hope to win.
The days of the poor, bare studio, and lonely, sad life were ended now.
Tintoretto had no longer to struggle with poverty and neglect. His
house was a beautiful palace looking over the lagoon towards Murano,
and he had married the daughter of a Venetian noble, and lived a happy,
contented life. Children's voices made gay music in his home, and the
pattering of little feet broke the silence of his studio. Fame had come
to him too. His work might be strange but it was very wonderful, and
Venice was proud of her new painter. His great stormy pictures had
earned for him the name off 'the furious painter,' and the world began
to acknowledge his greatness.
But the real sunshine of his life was his little daughter Marietta. As
soon as she learned to walk she found her way to her father's studio,
and until she was fifteen years old she was always with him and helped
him as if she had been one of his pupils. She was dressed too as a boy,
and visitors to the studio never guessed that the clever, handsome boy
was really the painter's daughter.
There were many great schools in Venice at that time, and there was
much work to be done in decorating their walls with paintings. A school
was not really a place of education, but a society of people who joined
themselves together in charity to nurse the sick, bury the dead, and
release any prisoners who had been taken captive. One of the greatest
of the schools was the 'Scuola de San Rocco,' and this was given into
the hands of Tintoretto, who covered the walls with his paintings,
leaving but little room for other artists.
But it is in the Ducal Palace that the master's most famous work is
seen. There, covering the entire side of the great hall, hangs his
'Paradiso,' the largest oil painting in the world.
At first it seems but a gloomy picture of Paradise. It is so vast, and
such hundreds of figures are crowded together, and the colour is dark
and sombre. There is none of that swinging of golden censers by
white-robed angels, none of the pure glad colouring of spring flowers
which makes us love the Paradise of Fra Angelico.
But if we stand long enough before it a great awe steals over us, and
we forget to look for bright colours and gentle angel faces, for the
figures surging upwards are very real and human, and the Paradise into
which we gaze seems to reveal to our eyes the very place where we
ourselves shall stand one day.
At the time when Tintoretto was painting his 'Paradiso,' his little
daughter Marietta had grown to be a woman, and her painting too had
become famous. She was invited to the courts of Germany and Spain to
paint the portraits of the King and Emperor, but she refused to leave
Venice and her beloved father. Even when she married Mario, the
jeweller, she did not go far from home, and Tintoretto grew every year
fonder and prouder of his clever and beautiful daughter. Not only could
she paint, but she played and sang most wonderfully, and became a great
favourite among the music-loving Venetians.
But this happiness soon came to an end, for Marietta died suddenly in
the midst of her happy life.
Nothing could comfort Tintoretto for the loss of his daughter. She was
buried in the church of Santa Maria dell' Orto, and there he ordered
another place to be prepared that he might be buried at her side. It
seemed, indeed, as if he could not live without her, for it was not
long before he passed away. The last great stormy picture of 'the
furious painter' was finished, and all Venice mourned as they laid him
to rest beside the daughter he had loved so well.