Stories of a Life in the Guest House
During World War II, the City Hall in Contrà San Faustino was destroyed in a bombing, and along with the grand ceiling by Tiepolo, the entire family archive was lost. These are the stories that survived thanks to oral tradition, passed down through the generations of the Valmarana family.
The Story of the Zecchini
In 1757, Giustino Valmarana called Giambattista Tiepolo, who had already worked for him in the ballroom of the city hall. Giambattista came with his son Giandomenico and a group of assistants – it’s said that the frescoes were completed in just 4 months!
But Giustino died in June 1757, leaving his two sons, Antonio Cristoforo and Gaetano, as heirs… and Tiepolo didn’t trust them! Upon hearing of Giustino’s death, he immediately left the Villa with the frescoes unfinished, fearing that the sons would not be as generous as their father. However, when the will was opened – which included a large sum of gold zecchini for Giambattista – the artists immediately returned to complete the work.
The Story of the Dates
Until the early 1940s, all the frescoes in the Palazzina and Guest House were attributed solely to Giambattista Tiepolo. This misunderstanding stemmed from the date written on the cartouche to the left of the “Mondo Novo” fresco in the Carnival room of the Guest House: for years it was read as 1737, but if that had been the case, Giandomenico, who was born in 1727, would have been only 10 years old. It was only after the war that art historian Antonio Morassi realized that the number “3” had a small mark towards the right, revealing it to be a “5”, finally allowing the attribution of the frescoes in the Guest House to Giandomenico.
The Anguish of the Chicken Breast
Excerpt from: Paolo Valmarana, Loving Cinema in 1952, Sipiel Ed., Milan
“I spent my childhood in the anguish of the chicken breast… It almost always arrived at the table, I would say at least three hundred days a year, chicken meat. There was no money for the butcher, and the chickens came from the countryside; they weren’t paid for and were part of the rent, which involved a few coins and many goods in kind, such as chickens, a few guinea fowls, a pig once a year, butter, and eggs, which, not so long ago, a vigilant grandmother measured with a small wire hoop to check that the diameter was not too small. Chickens and the rest were called “honors,” which, of course, meant tribute, respect paid by the farmer to the landlord.
The hatred for chicken was intense, and it softened, not much, by taking possession of the breast. Our family consisted of four people: my mother, my father, my brother Angelo, and me. In this case, the problem of the chicken breast did not arise. My mother ate the leg, I never knew if out of vocation or maternal love, my father the rump and neck with head and comb; and we would turn our eyes away to avoid recognizing the shape of the hated bird on my father’s plate. The breast was divided into two, one for Angelo and one for me. However, it often happened that at the table there was a fifth person, an old family friend or distant relative who had chosen a solitary life and endured poverty, but never bowed to work, unknown for generations; he was served, of course, second, after my mother. Of their potential, and frequent, choice of the breast, Angelo, my older brother, served before me, had nothing to fear, but I was often lost.
The hypothesis of not taking another portion was excluded by the obligations of good manners, leaving it on the plate was forbidden. I would make tiny pieces, hoping to lose their texture and taste by drowning them in the side dish, but the illusion was short-lived, even though I never gave up, and that chicken that was not breast stayed stuck in my throat for the centuries to come.
…I am sure that these memories of our monotonous and silent table are close, for what they were, to the breakfasts and lunches of the generations that preceded me. Of course, instead of the old poorly paid or unpaid maid and the cook who stayed in the kitchen, there were at least ten servants, and they were certainly unpaid except for food, lodging, and a few gifts. At my childhood table, everything was still linen, but worn and mismatched, with stains that grew until Sunday; the glasses were thick and plain, and the plates were ceramic from Nove, all chipped. And before, the linen tablecloths were huge and spotless, and their embroidered surface far exceeded the plain areas. The serving trays were always made of solid silver, with the San Marco border, Bohemian glasses, a long line of cutlery; the plates, of which a few melancholy survivors remain, were porcelain, with a blue edge, a gold rim, and the family crest prominently in the center. The table was set for many people…
My father told… that my grandfather’s dream was to take a trip to Rome, but he never found the money for the train and hotel, and he consoled himself by saying that it probably wasn’t that much. He stayed in Vicenza his whole life, in the villa, which remains one of the most beautiful in the world, eating chicken and livers under the frescoes.”
The Story of the Poor
Excerpt from: Giustino Valmarana, Yesterday, Ed. del Ruzante
“… dad and mom would visit their poor clients every autumn… Fifty years ago, none of them had a bed, only trestles with planks and “paioni.” The raw, thinly sliced cabbage was seasoned with just vinegar, as they couldn’t afford oil. The chickens raised at home were eaten only a few times a year: you can imagine with what enthusiasm they were brought as “honors” or gifts or additions to the landowner, only to be brought back because they weren’t fat enough! As St. Martin’s Day approached, my parents (and it was a significant burden, because we had a lot of land but little money) would buy the necessary clothing, clogs, sheets, and blankets for their beneficiaries (the poor listed in their modest but generous register, with some additions and subtractions, such as the deceased).
… I want to end these memories with the ceremony of All Saints’ Day. On this day, in the large kitchen at Lonedo* on the hearth, large pots of stew would be cooked to distribute to the poor: bachelors and the lonely would eat it sitting on the gate’s stone wall, or if it rained, under the small porch. Each person would bring their own bowl (the noble family did not provide dishes, at most the spoons, and the serving staff disliked washing them because serving the masters was not pleasant, but it was custom; however, making “accommodations for a poorer person” was not included in their salary). The others, those with families, came with pots to take home the soup: it doesn’t seem believable today that some, and sometimes many, kilometers were traveled for such a modest benefit. Modest, yes, but it was given with heart (I remember my mother going to taste it after preparing all the ingredients, making sure there was plenty of skin: it was perhaps the only meat they would eat). It was given with heart and received with gratitude, I would say with goodwill: they felt that for the Valmarana family, remembering their dead in this way was a consolation.”
- The Valmarana family also owned Villa Godi in Lonedo di Lugo di Vicenza, now Villa Godi-Malinverni.
